Suspects

by William Caunitz

  The exuberance of her tone put him on his guard. She led him through the luxury duplex to a curving white staircase. There was a large window in the wall that overlooked the East River. She hurried up the stairs ahead of him and opened a door at the head of the staircase. Pointing into the room, she said, “Here is my niece, Lieutenant. Andrea, dear, this nice policeman would like to ask you a few questions. When …” She wheeled and placed her forehead against the doorjamb and cried.

  Scanlon came up behind her and looked into the room.

  Andrea Zimmerman, the birthday girl with the shy smile and inquisitive eyes, lay in a big bed expressionless, her blank eyes fixed on some black hole in time. Scanlon clenched his fists, digging his nails into the skin of his palms. His eyes began to fill and his chin quivered. He leaned quietly into the room and pulled the door closed. He put his arm around the crying woman and led her downstairs.

  Throwing herself onto the sofa, she said, “I didn’t think that I had any tears left.”

  “What do the doctors say?” he asked softly, sitting down next to her.

  “Their glowing prognosis is that time will tell. The truth is, they just don’t know. They hedge and say that she’ll probably come out of it. She has periods when she focuses her eyes and seems to recognize me.”

  “Have you made any plans?”

  “I’ve taken a leave of absence from the bank. Andrea and I are going to live here for a while. If Andrea should come around I want her to have a sense of family.”

  “Will you allow me to look through your mother’s and your brother’s personal papers?”

  “Lieutenant Fable asked me the same question. I’ll tell you what I told him. No. I have had enough policemen in my life these last few days to last me a lifetime. I don’t want policemen poking around my family’s history. And I especially do not want police protection.”

  Stone walls everywhere. “Now that you have had time to think, can you recall any connection that Gallagher might have had to your family?”

  “No, I can’t. Your lieutenant was getting Andrea’s birthday cake as a favor to Mother.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Gallagher was not one of Mother’s priorities.” She glowered at him. “What will happen to them if you catch them? Will they die in the electric chair?”

  “No, Linda, they won’t. This state does not have the death penalty. If they are convicted, and if they don’t plea-bargain, the most that they could get is twenty-five to life on each homicide.” He grimaced. “And the sentences more than likely would be made to run concurrent instead of consecutive, which means twelve, fifteen years inside and then parole.”

  “Parole!” she shouted at him. “And you call that justice?”

  “I don’t call it anything, Linda. I don’t make the law, I enforce it.”

  On the seat of an armchair in front of the sofa where she sat was a massive glass ashtray overflowing with cigarettes from which, in most cases, only a few puffs had been taken before they’d been stubbed out. There was a box of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter on the chair next to the ashtray. She picked up the lighter and toyed with the cover, clicking it open and closed. She lit a cigarette.

  “I wish you would consider allowing us to look through those papers.”

  She took successive drags on the cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray. “No.”

  “Don’t you want to help us find the killer?”

  She glared at him. “I’ve already helped your investigation. I’ve supplied the bodies. People I loved.” Crying, she added, “It just isn’t fair. Parole after a few years. No. No. That isn’t fair.” She toppled over and lay on the sofa, crying.

  “Let it out, Linda. Let it come,” he said, soothing the side of her head with his hand.

  Her sobs subsided after several minutes. He continued to soothe her, murmuring calming words.

  She abruptly pushed his hand away and sat on the sofa. “I guess you’re my only hope of getting justice.”

  Scanlon made a plea for her total cooperation and said, “You can’t hold anything back, because you don’t know what is important and I do.”

  Again she picked up her lighter and clicked the Zippo’s top open and closed, then she lit another cigarette, took several nervous drags, and crushed it out in the ashtray.

  “I’ve given Mother’s clothes and furniture to the Salvation Army. Her papers are in the dining room. If you want to, go ahead and look.”

  “When did you gather up your mother’s belongings?”

  “The day after she was murdered. There were personal things that I wanted to get out of there before the neighborhood burglars had a picnic at my family’s expense.”

  “The day after she died?” he said. “You were composed enough to go to her apartment and clean it out?”

  “I told you, there were personal things that I wanted.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Lieutenant, I’m not one of your suspects. So don’t press me to tell you very personal things that I don’t want to tell you.”

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes I can be a little overzealous.”

  She got up and led him into a formal room with a long mahogany table and a brass chandelier. Three cartons were on the table. She stood by his side, watching, as he sifted through the first of the cartons. He moved slowly, carefully, removing the contents an item at a time, examining them, searching for a reason for murder.

  Scrutinized, each item was laid down on the table beside the carton it came out of. He found old letters bound together with rubber bands. There was an old pocket-size address book with odd telephone exchanges: Buckminster, Esplanade, Ingersoll. There was a music box that did not chime, some old photographs, an antique ring, and some long-paid bills.

  He put the items back into the carton and went on to the next one.

  In the last carton he found a novel: Rebecca and the Jewess by Mrs. Madeline Leslie. The copyright date was 1879. He turned the brittle pages.

  “A friend of Mother’s gave that to me when I was nine years old. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and put the book down.

  She reached into the carton and pulled out a slender leather-bound book. “My God. My yearbook from junior high. Mother must have saved it,” she said, looking through the book.

  Scanlon reached into the last carton and scoured through the debris of a life. To his disappointment, he found nothing significant.

  “My brother used his basement as his office. His secretary is there now. I’ll telephone her to tell her to expect you.”

  She walked with him out into the entrance foyer, where he rang for the elevator and turned to face her. “Why did you change your mind about permitting me to look through her papers?”

  She looked away from him. “Because you’re all I’ve got. And, God knows why—I trust you.”

  1853 hours. Scanlon arrived back at the Nine-three Squad. He had wasted five hours sifting through Stanley Zimmerman’s personal and medical records. It had been a hot, muggy day and the city’s grime clung to his skin.

  Scanlon unlatched the squad-room gate and went into his office. He threw himself into his chair, pulled up his trouser leg, removed the prosthesis, and stood it in the wastebasket. He yanked off the smelly stump sock and threw it into the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out the talc, sprinkled it over the stump, and sighed, relishing the soothing effect of the white powder and his massaging hands.

  One by one the detectives filtered in and hovered around, watching the Whip tend to his stump. Lew Brodie was the first to speak. He told the Whip that Eddie Hamill had been processed and was lodged in Central Booking for the night. The prisoner was scheduled for arraignment in the morning in Part 1A of Manhattan Criminal Court. The PC had telephoned to say that he wanted Scanlon to attend the arraignment.

  Christopher stopped eating his yogurt to tell Scanlon that after he and Biafra Baby had finished in the Seventh they drove to Brooklyn and continued their s
urveillance of Harold Hunt, the accountant. They tailed Hunt from his office to the Santorini Diner. The accountant had a hamburger and a cup of tea and left. Valerie Clarkson waited on him. The detectives followed him from the diner to a factory on Dumont Avenue. They discovered that it was one of those urban slave plantations that employ Haitian and Hispanic illegals for below the minimum wage.

  Christopher paused, watching the Whip kneading his stump, checking the edema. “Are you ready for this one, Lieutenant?” Christopher asked.

  “I’m ready,” Scanlon said, pulling on a clean stump sock.

  “The name of the company was the Luv-Joy Manufacturing Company. Harold Hunt, Donna Hunt’s husband, is the accountant for the company that made all those things that you found in Gallagher’s splash pad.”

  Scanlon looked up at Christopher. “Harold Hunt?”

  “You got it,” Biafra Baby said. “I took off my coat and tie and moseyed into the factory and applied for a job. As I was filling out the application I looked into the adjoining room and saw Harold poring over ledgers.”

  “Do you think he made you?” Scanlon asked.

  “Naw. He has no idea that we’ve been on him,” Biafra Baby said.

  “What about Valerie Clarkson—did she see you in the restaurant?” Scanlon asked.

  “We didn’t go inside,” Christopher said. “Biafra Baby waited in the car and I sat in the diner’s vestibule watching Harold eat.”

  “Did Harold and Valerie Clarkson seem to know each other? Were they friendly?”

  “Not really,” Christopher said. “They seemed to have a casual acquaintance, nothing more than that.”

  “Find out who owns that company,” Scanlon said to Christopher and Biafra Baby.

  Higgins said, “Lieutenant Fable telephoned a couple of times. Nothing important, just touching base with you. He said to tell you that he sent you some stuff in the department mail.”

  Scanlon rummaged through the pile of reports cluttering his desk. He found two multi-use envelopes from the Nineteenth. There was also an envelope from the department artist addressed to CO 93 Sqd. Personal.

  He pulled the three envelopes from the pile.

  “Teniente, did you get a chance to read the latest department bulletin?”

  “Not yet,” Scanlon said, leaning back and affixing his prosthesis.

  “Listen to this shit,” Colon said, reading. “‘The Gay Officers Action League will hold its annual Stonewall memorial service and breakfast on June 29, 1986, at 0830 hours. Upon completion of the breakfast, members of GOAL will assemble at GOAL Hall in preparation for the Christopher Street Liberation Day March and Rally of 1986. Uniformed and civilian members of the service who are members of GOAL and wish to participate in these functions …’” He looked up from the bulletin, troubled. “You know the rest, they throw in a Twenty-eight and take the tour off. You know, Teniente, when I came in the Job the precinct whore was always a female and a civilian. And now?” He wafted the green bulletin down onto the desk. “This job has really gone down the tubes.”

  Higgins glared at Colon, the rebuke on her lips. Instead, she shook her head with disgust and walked from the office without saying anything.

  Scanlon checked the time: 1910 hours. “Go home,” he told the detectives. “I’ll see you on deck in the ayem.”

  “Sure you ain’t going to need us?” Colon asked.

  “I’m sure,” Scanlon said, scanning a Five, signing it.

  “Anyone wanna stop for a taste?” Lew Brodie asked.

  “Sounds good to me,” Biafra Baby said. “I’m in no rush to get home. My wife took the kids to the Monet exhibit.”

  Hector Colon stopped at the water cooler for a drink. He gulped the water. From the corner of his eye he saw a cockroach flow into his mouth. He dropped the cup and gagged. He clutched his throat, retching.

  Higgins rushed over to him. “Hector, what’s the matter?”

  His handsome Latin face was pale gray. “I swallowed a cockaroach,” he gasped.

  “Is that all?” Higgins said, walking away. “There is absolutely nothing to worry about, Hector. Roaches are extremely clean creatures.”

  Clutching his throat in horror, Colon gasped. “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” She turned and hurled a concerned look at him.

  “What? Tell me!” Colon said.

  “Well, it’s nothing. But I just realized that the roach that you ingested might be a female cockroach, a pregnant female cockroach.” She let her words hang.

  Shrinking away from her, Colon asked feebly, “So?”

  Higgins grimaced. “Well, cockroaches lay seven, eight hundred eggs at a time. And your stomach is a dark, wet, warm place. It would be a perfect nesting place for baby roaches. It is conceivable that you could end up with thousands of cockroaches nesting in your stomach lining, a whole darn colony of them. I mean, you could actually have dozens of them crawling in and out of your penis.”

  “Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” Colon ran screaming from the squad room.

  “I guess he’s rushing to the Stonewall Parade,” Higgins said, taking a lipstick from her pocketbook. Scanlon sat at his desk, listening, suppressing a grin. Higgins strolled deadpan into the office. “I guess Hector doesn’t like roaches.”

  “Guess not,” Scanlon said, unable to keep from smiling. “You heading home?”

  “I want to work on my term paper,” she answered. “I’ll hang around here and do it. Somehow I work better in the squad room.”

  The first envelope Scanlon opened contained the composite sketch of a man with a walrus mustache and an accompanying Five of the interview of the witness who had seen the mustached man enter and leave the Kingsley Arms apartment building.

  He read the Five. He leaned the composite up against the gray department desk lamp, scrutinizing the face. There was something about that face that was familiar. He tried to imagine the face without the mustache. But who was it? Scanlon opened the Gallagher/Zimmerman case folder. He searched through the folder for the composite of the perp the two female witnesses had seen. An old man running from a candy store. He found it near the bottom of the pile. He leaned it against the lamp with the other composite. The pigeon feeder’s face was old, while the composite of the mustached man depicted a young man, a man in his late thirties or early forties.

  The envelope from the department artist contained the composite of the driver of the getaway van that he had talked Walter Ticornelli into working on with the artist. The sketch showed the side view of a young face with sunglasses and a hat pulled down over the brow. Scanlon recalled that the shylock had only caught the driver’s profile.

  With the three composites arrayed in front of him, he compared one to the other. He reached out and picked up the sketch of the pigeon feeder. The more he studied the remaining two, the more convinced he was that the man with the walrus mustache and the man in the sunglasses were the same man. He leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes. The phone rang. He snapped it up.

  “Lieutenant Scanlon.”

  “Lou, this is Sergeant Vitali. You know me from the Columbians.”

  “How are you, Vic?” Vic Vitali had run for recording secretary of the Italian-American police organization two years ago and lost by twelve votes.

  “Lou, I just responded to a call from the emergency room of St. John’s. They’re holding one of your detectives under restraints. He’s ranting about colonies of cockroaches nesting in his stomach and crawling in and out of his cock. We had to take his gun for safekeeping.”

  A broad grin spread across Scanlon’s face. I wonder where he got that idea? he thought, looking out into the squad room at Higgins talking on the telephone.

  “What do you want me to do about this guy?” Vitali asked.

  “It’s fate getting back at him for being a wise-ass with one of his partners. He had a practical joke played on him. Where is he now?”

  “Strapped onto a trolley outside the examining room.”

  “Keep him there
for a while. I’m sending one of my detectives over to get him. Her name is Higgins.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Lou. See ya at the next meeting.”

  Scanlon went out into the squad room and told Higgins what had happened to Colon and asked her if she would go to the hospital and get him released.

  “It would be a pleasure, Lieutenant,” she said, taking her pocketbook and getting up.

  Scanlon went back into his office and opened the remaining multi-use envelope. It contained the copies of the forensics reports on the Stanley and Rachel Zimmerman homicides. Included with the reports were photographs of the striations on the roof door of the Kingsley Arms. Each individual characteristic was noted and numbered. There were also photographs of rusty screws that showed fresh screwdriver marks on the heads, and photographic enlargements of screws with small pieces of wood wedged between their threads. The perp lost his patience and tore off the hasp with a crowbar, he thought, examining the photographs. The last batch of photographs in the envelope were of the plaster casts made of the footprints found on the roof of the Kingsley Arms.

  Etched sharply into the tarred roof were the deep impressions of a heel. Black lines and numbers noted each characteristic: nail marks, chips in the rubber, wear striations, an imbedded pebble. It was a narrow heel. Scanlon looked down at his own heel. His was much wider. The photographs of the toe showed a triangular impression with a narrow convex tip.

  Scanlon read the accompanying Five. The perp’s walking picture put him at five-eleven and approximately 185 pounds. The Five detailed each characteristic that made up the walking picture. He had read down to the last paragraph of the report when a phrase leaped up at him: “The sum of these configurations leads the undersigned to conclude that the perpetrator in this case wore cowboy boots.”

  Scanlon’s eyes darted to the array of composite sketches, back to the phrase on the bottom of the Five, back to the composites. He heaved himself up out of the chair and rushed from the squad room.

  A string of firecrackers exploded as Scanlon drove into the One-fourteen’s walled-in parking area. It was 2110. He rushed up the echoing iron staircase and entered the offices of the Seventeenth Narcotics District. Undercovers and their backups were going over the strategy for the night’s buys. Everything seemed to be back to normal at the Seventeenth District. Scanlon moved to a bearded round-faced man who was logging a telephone message. “Is Inspector Schmidt around?”