Suspects

by William Caunitz

  The bearded man lined off the message and looked up. “He’s gone for the day. I’m Sergeant Quigley. Can I help you?”

  Scanlon identified himself to the sergeant. “There are a few matters concerning Joe Gallagher that need tidying up. I’d like to take a look at your personnel files.”

  Quigley looked down at the message he had just logged. “Gallagher’s replacement has just been assigned. Frank Devine from the Eleventh District. Know him?”

  “I know Frank from around the Job. What about those records?”

  Quigley showed Scanlon into the Whip’s office. “Yell if you need anything,” the sergeant said, backing out the door.

  The files were alphabetical, by rank. Scanlon fingered the tabs to the sergeants’ section of the file. His fingertips danced over the folders until he came to Harris, George.

  Sitting with the folder on his lap, Scanlon stared at the pin maps on the wall, silently admonishing himself. Harris wasn’t the only man in this town who wore cowboy boots. So what if there was a resemblance between Harris and two of the composites? That didn’t mean that Harris was the perp. Still, Harris was the only person connected with the case who did wear that damn kind of footwear. But Harris involved in Gallagher’s death? That couldn’t be. He opened the folder.

  Harris had submitted two Chief Clerk 30s, Change of Residence or Social Condition. One had notified the department of a change of residence: Long Island to Staten Island. The other form informed the Job of a change in social status: married to separated.

  Both forms were dated February 5, 1984.

  Scanlon read through years of evaluation reports that attested to Harris’s above-average performance. He read letters of commendation from satisfied citizens, and he read requests for departmental recognition that certified to Harris’s exemplary performance of duty, his bravery. He came across an old Ten Card, and noted that Harris was forty-two years old.

  The off-duty employment requests were pinned together, in chronological order. Permission had been given for Harris to engage in off-duty employment at the Stevens Manufacturing Company. In the space on the form captioned “Describe specific duties and responsibilities,” Harris had written, “Administrative.” The first request was dated March 10, 1980. It was pinned to four annual renewal applications, each one dated ten days prior to the expiration of the current approved request, as required by Section 120-14 of the Patrol Guide.

  Scanlon pinned the off-duty employment applications back together and flicked past them through the remainder of the file. Finding nothing else of interest, he began to shape the uneven edges back into a neat pile. Something nudged his memory. He shuffled back through the stack of forms to the off-duty requests. The Stevens Manufacturing Company and the Luv-Joy Manufacturing Company were both on Dumont Avenue, Brooklyn.

  All the shadows had triangular shapes.

  Scanlon lay in Sally De Nesto’s bed staring up at them, vaguely aware of her efforts to make him erect, his thoughts filled with Harris and those damn cowboy boots. He raced mentally over the recent police scandals, and wondered if they presaged a new breed of cop, a breed unable to distinguish between the good guys and the bad guys, a breed that considered themselves a law unto themselves, a breed willing to go to any length to see that their concept of justice prevailed. What if his growing suspicion was correct? What if Harris was the perp? What would that scandal do to the Job? But it couldn’t be. Why would Harris be involved in Gallagher’s death? For what motive? And what about the doctor and his wife? There was no connection between Gallagher and Harris. It was all wrong.

  “I’m tired,” Sally De Nesto said, resting her face on his groin.

  He pressed her head to his body. “I’ve got things on my mind.”

  She crawled up the bed and lay next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re not upset, are you?”

  “There’s a lot on my mind. I’m just not in the mood.”

  “Would you be upset if I were Jane Stomer?”

  He found himself openly measuring her. “Of course I’d be upset,” he said tersely.

  “Then I think that you should ask yourself why.”

  “Because I can relax with you and not have to worry about satisfying you.”

  “That should tell you something about your problem.”

  “It tells me that I can’t relax with a straight woman, especially if I care for her.”

  She turned on her side, facing him. “But why?”

  “Because I’m afraid of failure,” he blurted.

  A satisfied smile spread across her face.

  He pulled her to him. “What am I, your psychological profile of the month?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve discussed your problem with my shrink friend.”

  “What shrink?”

  “My blind psychiatrist trick. I’ve mentioned him to you.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “He said that your problem was more than likely the result of a premorbid disposition caused by some childhood relationship. A fear of being unable to satisfy someone you loved.”

  In a brief flash of recall he saw his drunken Irish father standing in the shadows, laughing at him. “If you keep up with the psychoanalysis I just might not need you anymore.”

  “I know,” she said, flopping off her side onto her back and turning her face from him.

  “I’m really drained. May I stay the night?”

  “You can, but it will cost you extra.”

  “What the hell is it with you? One minute you’re soft and caring, and the next you’re all business.”

  “I am in business, Tony. And I can’t let myself forget that I am.” She reached out and turned off the soft light on her night table.

  Staring into the darkness, Scanlon thought about his parents and Jane Stomer, unaware of Sally De Nesto’s silent tears.

  16

  The pews in the Manhattan Criminal Court complaint room were filled with dozing policemen waiting to be interviewed by an ADA. Coffee containers and blackened cigarette butts littered the floor. Scattered sheets of newspaper added to the mess. Morning rays fought a losing battle to penetrate the filthy windows.

  Five court clerks were assigned to the complaint room to assist arresting officers in drawing up the complaints against prisoners, listing the specific crimes charged, detailing the elements of each crime, spelling out a prima facie case against each prisoner. The law required that a legally sufficient case be established at the prisoner’s arraignment; bail would then be set.

  It was 1015 hours and one of the clerks still had not arrived for work. The four who had showed up were sitting behind a long counter that was covered with legal forms and about a dozen manual typewriters. One of the clerks was discussing his margin account over the telephone, one was reading yesterday’s New York Post and sucking jelly from a sugared doughnut, and the two remaining clerks were typing affidavits by the court’s renowned hunt-and-peck method.

  A line of waiting policemen stretched out into the hallway.

  Scanlon and Brodie entered the courthouse and went directly into the police sign-in room. After they signed in, they went to the complaint room. When the Whip saw the line he told Brodie to draw up the complaint against Hamill. He was going down to the lobby and make some telephone calls, and he would meet Brodie in the courtroom. Scanlon was anxious to put the Hamill caper behind them.

  Scanlon crossed the cavernous lobby, taking in the ornate construction, rich in marble. It had been some time since he had been in Manhattan Criminal Court. Jane had been an important part of his life then; now she was nothing but an aching memory. He saw many familiar faces, lawyers holding morning court, doing what they do best, fleecing the unwary, the uninitiated. He spotted Sammy Gold, the court’s resident bookmaker, taking down the day’s action. His footsteps echoed off the marble floor. Nothing much ever changes around here, he thought, stopping at the building’s newsstand to take in the morning headlines.

  The NYPD had finally made if
off the front page. The PC had been right—there was nothing like an arrest to end public interest in a case. He wondered if Buckman, the Cocksucker with Lockjaw, had anything to do with the sudden loss of interest.

  He went over to the telephone bank and slid into a booth. He telephoned the Squad, and when Detective Suckieluski answered, he told Biafra Baby that he wanted him and Christopher to find out if the Luv-Joy Manufacturing Company on Dumont Avenue had once been named the Stevens Manufacturing Company. And if the owners of both companies were the same people.

  When Scanlon left the phone booth he spotted Higgins and Colon in the lobby. He called to them. Approaching the two, he noticed a shamefaced Hector Colon looking up at the rococo molding.

  “How you feeling today, Hector?” Scanlon asked.

  “I don’t know what to say, Lou. I mean, thanks for what you did for me. I mean, I guess them fucking cockaroaches just got to me. Where’s Brodie?” he asked, obviously anxious to change the subject and get away from Higgins.

  “He’s in the complaint room,” Scanlon said. “Why don’t you go and help him draw up the complaint.”

  “Right, Lou,” Colon said, and hurried off.

  “What happened last night at the hospital?” Scanlon asked Higgins.

  She gave vent to a partly suppressed laugh. “Macho man was tied to a hospital gurney. He’d calmed down, but he’d had the starch taken out of his sails.”

  Scanlon and Higgins pushed through the padded doors into the courtroom. He gazed at the burnished wood paneling. They never scrimp, he thought, sliding into a rear bench. Higgins slid in next to him.

  Policemen lounged around the courtroom, waiting for court to be called into session. A lone court clerk sat in front of the bench arranging the day’s arraignment calendar. Lawyers ambled into the courtroom. Some went up to the court clerk; a whispered conversation would ensue, after which a fast handshake would take place, after which the court clerk would move an affidavit from the bottom of the pile to the top of the pile.

  The criminal justice system in action, Scanlon thought, slapping another fold into his newspaper. Time passed. Scanlon worked the crossword. Higgins read a Harlequin Romance. A man in a seer-sucker suit and conservative tie carrying a stack of folders under his arm entered the courtroom and called out Scanlon’s name.

  “Over here, Counselor,” Scanlon said.

  “I’m ADA Rabinowitz,” he said, sliding into the pew next to Higgins. “I’ve been assigned the Hamill arraignment.” He opened one of the folders on his lap and read off the details of the arrest. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

  Scanlon looked at Higgins. They both concentrated on the ADA’s question, and shrugged. “You got it all, Counselor,” Scanlon said.

  “As I read this case, Hamill is not a suspect in the Gallagher/Zimmerman homicides,” said ADA Rabinowitz.

  “Not at this time,” Scanlon said. “The investigation is continuing.”

  “What the hell does that mean, Lieutenant?” the ADA said.

  “That means, Counselor,” Scanlon said, “that the investigation is continuing.”

  “You brought me a red herring, didn’t you?” Rabinowitz said.

  “We’re just doing our job, sir,” Higgins said.

  “I’ll go see if I can rush this thing along,” the ADA said. “I want to get rid of this case as fast as I can.”

  At 1120 hours, Scanlon, the ADA, Eddie Hamill, and a Legal Aid lawyer all stood before the bench listening to the court clerk read the complaint.

  The prisoner’s head was bowed.

  The clerk intoned, “… all the physical evidence in the case be admitted into evidence under the Clear View Doctrine.”

  Hamill’s head shot up. He looked at Scanlon with a stunned expression.

  Scanlon shrugged innocently and whispered, “So I lied a little.”

  The judge set bail at two hundred thousand dollars. The sullen prisoner was led away by two court officers.

  The detectives walked out of the courtroom. Colon and Higgins were waiting. Scanlon noticed Colon sneaking glances at him. Higgins was smiling.

  “Hello, Scanlon.”

  He heard her voice and froze, excitement ripping at his chest. “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he told the detectives, watching them cross the lobby.

  Jane Stomer was standing to the right of the courtroom’s padded doors. She was wearing a paisley skirt and a matching paisley blouse and white shoes. She had a deep tan and her lips sparkled. She wore no hose and her legs were smooth; he recalled how she used to open her legs to him, and he felt the beating of his own heart.

  “Hello, Jane,” he said feebly.

  A wistful smile was on her lips. “You look fit, Scanlon.”

  “So do you.”

  “I heard all about your big arrest,” she said. “The word is that it’s a throw-out.”

  “How have you been?”

  She looked at him strangely, as though checking to see if he was the same man. “I’ve been good. How is your mother?”

  “Very good, thanks. And your parents?”

  “The same.”

  “I’ve missed you a lot.”

  “Obviously not enough to call.”

  He looked down at the floor. “I’ve still got that problem.”

  “That problem could have been worked out. And I suppose you still haven’t sought professional help.”

  He sighed. “Not yet.”

  A forlorn look came over her face. “It was good to see you again, Scanlon.” She nodded at him and walked away.

  A terrible sense of loss possessed him as he watched her thread her way through the swelling crowd. Suddenly he heard his voice calling out her name, and he saw her stop. He rushed through the crowd, shouldering people from his path. He grabbed her by the wrist and led her away, searching for some place where they might be alone. Finding no privacy, he led her out of the building by the Baxter Street exit.

  “I have to be in court in five minutes,” she protested, tugging her wrist free.

  “One minute, please.”

  The compact street was clogged with double-parked police cars. Department of Correction vans were queued up outside the massive steel doors of the court’s detention facility, waiting their turn to discharge their cargo. Scanlon looked up and down the street. Gripping her by the hand, he pulled her along, angling around cars and between bumpers, and led her to a bench inside small Baxter Street Park.

  Camera-laden Japanese tourists were milling around the park taking photographs of Chinatown.

  “Well?” she demanded, sitting next to him.

  Unrehearsed words spilled from his lips. Knowing that he was fighting the clock, he talked fast and convincingly.

  Her stern countenance and her unrelenting stare did not deter him; he plodded on. He told her that he realized how badly he had handled his dysfunction. He told her that he had been unable to cope with losing his leg and his manhood at the same time. He told her of the nightmare that he had had in the hospital: naked, she would go to straddle his legs, see that one was missing, and back away, laughing. He told her how much he had missed her in his life, how empty his life had been without her. “I know that I made a mess of things,” he said, taking her hand in his.

  “Yes, you certainly did.” She pulled her hand free and checked the time. “What is the purpose of this exercise, Scanlon?”

  “I’m in love with you, Jane, and I want you back in my life.”

  She sighed. Her voice softened. “I can’t, Tony. There is another man in my life now.” She got up. “Goodbye.”

  The Mohawk hairstyle accentuated her high cheekbones. Detective Alice Guerrero was a shapely woman in her middle thirties. She had clever catlike eyes and a narrow chin. She stood in front of Sigrid Thorsen with her forefinger held parallel to the witness’s eyebrows. “Sigrid, I’d like you to keep your eyes on my finger and lower your lids, but be sure to keep your eyes fixed on my finger.”

  Detective Guerrero m
oved away when she was finished and sat alongside the desk in the soundproof interview room of the Scientific Research Unit on the eleventh floor of the big building.

  “What was that for?” Sigrid Thorsen asked, brushing a tendril of blond hair from her shoulder.

  “That was a test that helps me to determine if you are a good subject for hypnosis.”

  “And am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You were able to keep your eyes fixed on my finger while you lowered your lids. A bad subject is not able to keep his eyes up.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward, facing the witness. “Sigrid, we use the relaxation technique of hypnosis. I’m going to relax you, and help you bring down your conscious and bring up your subconscious. Then I am going to take you back in time to that Thursday afternoon in McGoldrick Park. But before we start, I want you to tell me everything you can remember about what you saw in the park that afternoon.”

  Sigrid Thorsen told her tale to the department hypnotist. When the witness finished her story, the detective said, “I want you to know that when you are under hypnosis you will not say or do anything that you do not want to. We all have skeletons that we want to remain in the proverbial closet. So if I ask you a question you do not want to answer, just say so. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you have any questions before we start?”

  The witness turned in her seat and motioned to the large mirror that was set into the wall. “Is that a two-way mirror?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are there people watching us?”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Scanlon and detectives Higgins and Colon are in the adjoining room, watching. They can also hear everything we say. Do you have any problems with that?”

  Sigrid Thorsen smiled into the mirror. “No, I have no problem with that.”