Suspects

by William Caunitz

  Scanlon put on a pained expression. “Louie!”

  “What do you wanna know, paisan?”

  “You sit on the Board of Trustees for the Police Pension Fund, right?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re looking to get out with three-quarters?”

  “No, Louie, I could have had that when I lost my leg. I’m in the Job for the full count.” He leaned forward, looking directly into the trustee’s eyes. “You must be conversant with line-of-duty death benefits.”

  “Yeah, I am. Why?”

  “A lieutenant, twenty-two years on the Job, age forty-four, LOD death, how much?”

  Louie Pots and Pans closed his eyes and groaned. “I heard whispers that there might be a problem.”

  “How much, Louie?”

  The trustee said in Italian, “Tony, you can’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “I’m not thinking anything. How much, paisan?”

  Louie Pots and Pans picked up a pencil from his desk and began to jot numbers onto a police department scratch pad. “I happen to know that your fictionalized lieutenant was a member of both the PBA and the LBA and therefore entitled to both organizations’ group life insurance. The PBA pays seventy-five thousand and the LBA pays a hundred. In addition, on all LOD deaths the city contributes one year salary to the family—that would be, roughly, another fifty thousand. So for openers, we got two hundred and twenty-five.”

  The two men looked solemnly at each other.

  Louie Pots and Pans got up to check on his sauces. He added more seasoning to one of the pots and returned to his seat. “The widow would have the option of taking an LOD pension or taking the death gamble. In almost every case we strongly recommend that they take the death gamble.”

  “Why?”

  “Because LOD pensions are paid out in monthly installments over the course of the widow’s lifetime and would stop when she dies or if she should remarry. Whereas the death gamble is paid up front, in one lump sum.”

  “What about taxes?”

  “Hardly any. A few grand in state and local taxes, that’s all.”

  “Like most guys in the Job, I know the death gamble exists, but I’m ignorant of its provisions. Explain it to me, will you?”

  “The death-gamble bill was passed several years ago by the state legislature to protect the pension rights of guys who die in the Job after putting in their twenty. Under it, your lieutenant would have been deemed to have retired the day before his death. With his time in the Job, he’d have been entitled to an annual pension of about twenty-seven thousand.

  “The Pension Bureau woulda looked at their actuarial tables and seen that he had a life expectancy of about sixteen years. Then they’d multiply his annual pension by his life expectancy.” Louie Pots and Pans did the arithmetic on the scratch pad. “Four hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars. That would be in addition to the group life insurance policies and the city’s contribution of a year’s salary. The total would be six hundred and fifty-seven thousand. And then you’d have to throw in any private insurance he might have had.”

  Scanlon sank down into his seat and slapped his forehead. “LOD widows are wealthy ladies.”

  “That money don’t give them their husbands back. And if they got young kids to raise and see through college, all that money don’t go too far.”

  Scanlon’s mind raced ahead. “What about the donations that are made within and without the Job?”

  “They can add up to a nice piece of change. If the case gets a lot of publicity it can mean a lot of public sympathy. Especially if there’re children involved, and especially if one of the kids got Down’s syndrome and the other was slightly retarded. Sometimes those donations can run into six figures.”

  “Thanks, Louie,” Scanlon said, pushing himself up from the chair and going over to the grills. He picked up a wooden stirring spoon, scooped up some sauce, sipped it, and said, “Not bad, Louie, not bad. But it could use just a touch more garlic.”

  Police Commissioner Roberto Gomez’s drawn face reflected his deepening concern as he listened to Scanlon recount the latest developments in the Gallagher/Zimmerman homicide.

  Also present in the fourteenth-floor office were Scanlon’s immediate boss, Deputy Chief McKenzie, and Inspector Herman the German Schmidt.

  “Goddamnit, Scanlon,” the PC shouted, angrily slamming his palm down on the desk. “You don’t have one ounce of evidence to support this new theory of yours. Nothing that will stand up in court. And you know as well as I do that evidence obtained under hypnosis is inadmissible.”

  “Commissioner,” Scanlon countered, “the death-gamble motive is a lead worth following. It might come to something and it might not. And as far as the hypnosis is concerned, the courts have ruled that it can be used as an investigative tool. That is how we used it, as a tool to find out that the perp was a woman.”

  “But suppose the perp wasn’t a woman?” McKenzie said. “Then what? The entire thrust of your investigation will have been misdirected.”

  “I’m following up on every lead that we developed. Even if they end in a dead end, like Eddie Hamill.”

  “Let me understand this new hypothesis of yours,” the PC said to Scanlon. “You think that there is a possibility that Gallagher was murdered for his death-gamble money, and that Sgt. George Harris and Mrs. Gallagher conspired to kill her husband. Is that the basic plot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me, Lieutenant,” the PC said, “who killed Dr. Zimmerman and his wife, and why were they killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Scanlon said tightly.

  “Assuming for a moment that I buy your new theory, which, I hasten to add, I don’t, how would you proceed with the investigation?” Gomez said.

  “If the perp who took out Gallagher and Yetta Zimmerman was in fact a woman, and if that woman was Mrs. Gallagher, and if George Harris was her accomplice, then we know who has the evidence that we need to obtain a conviction.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs,” Gomez said.

  “And would you please tell me what evidence you’re talking about?” MacAdoo McKenzie said to Scanlon.

  “The shotgun that was used to kill Gallagher and Yetta Zimmerman, the cowboy boots that were worn on the roof of the Kingsley Arms, the rifle that took out the doctor and his wife, and the makeup that was used to turn a woman into a man,” Scanlon said.

  “Good God, man, do you think that they’d still have that evidence in their possession? They’d have gotten rid of it immediately after the killings,” McKenzie said.

  “I don’t think they had the time to dispose of it, at least not all of it,” Scanlon countered. “They’ve both been in the spotlight from the beginning of this case so I don’t think that they would have taken a chance of being seen dumping the stuff. Besides, Harris is cocky, the type of guy who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. People like him can’t conceive of getting caught. They’re too smart.”

  Unconvinced, the PC said, “Would someone go to such lengths as to wear a disguise and then forget to remove a wristwatch that could blow her cover?”

  “Absolutely,” Scanlon said with conviction. “It happens all the time. No matter how clever they are, or how much they plan, there is always some minor point that they manage to overlook. Mrs. Gallagher wore long sleeves, and she probably forgot all about her watch.”

  “Why kill Yetta Zimmerman?” MacAdoo McKenzie said.

  “To make it look as though it were a holdup and to throw us off the scent,” Scanlon said. “Gallagher had his time in the Job, so Mrs. Gallagher would have collected on the death gamble in any event. But it’s hard to fake an accidental death. The best way to murder a cop is to make it look as though he died in the line of duty. This way you would also collect money through donations. But more important, anything that resembled an LOD death would throw us off, make us look for phantom perps.”

  Silence fell over the four men as they sat contemplating the monstrous implications of Sca
nlon’s words. For a police sergeant to have engaged in the premeditated murder of a brother officer, for profit, was to their minds the ultimate act of betrayal.

  Herman the German shifted in his chair. “I keep coming back to the doctor and his wife. Why them?”

  “As I said before, I just don’t know,” Scanlon responded. “But off the top of my head, I can think of two possibilities.”

  “I’m listening,” PC Gomez said.

  “First off, there is a chance that Harris and Mrs. Gallagher might not have had their facts straight regarding the death gamble. They might have thought that in order to collect under it, Gallagher’s death had to be designated LOD. And when they saw that it might not be, they decided to ensure that it was by killing the doctor and his wife.”

  “How the hell would that ensure an LOD designation for Gallagher?” a skeptical MacAdoo McKenzie asked.

  “Their deaths gave credence to Yetta Zimmerman being the intended victim of the original hit, thereby setting up the scenario whereby Gallagher died protecting Yetta, guaranteeing an LOD designation.”

  “And the second reason?” demanded the PC.

  “To keep us off balance until nature took its course and the case died a natural death,” Scanlon said.

  McKenzie stamped his foot. “Do you realize what the hell you are saying? Really realize?”

  “Yes, I do,” Scanlon said.

  Disheartened, the PC got up and walked over to the window. He pushed aside the white vertical blinds and looked out. “Old Steve Kennedy was the PC when I came on the Job. I remember his terminating a rookie in my class because the investigating unit missed three speeding tickets on the original character investigation. And look at the Job today,” he lamented. “We’re forced to appoint functional illiterates, female dwarfs, and people with criminal records.” He kicked the wall. “No wonder the Job is in the state it’s in.” He went back and flung himself into his chair. “You intend to follow up on this new lead of yours, I gather,” Gomez said to Scanlon.

  “I think that I should, yes,” Scanlon said.

  “Then you listen to me, Lieutenant. I don’t want you to go near Harris or Mrs. Gallagher until you come up with some corroborating evidence besides hypnosis, composite sketches, and footprints left on a roof. I want something to hang our hats on, something we can go into court with. Mrs. Gallagher is the widow of a dead hero, and Harris is a decorated member of the force. Do I make myself clear, perfectly clear?”

  “Yes,” Scanlon said.

  “In that case, tell me what your next move is,” PC Gomez said to Scanlon.

  “I’ve made a list from the Yellow Pages of every theatrical makeup store in the city. I have two detectives checking them out now. I saw to it that they brought along photographs of Harris and Mrs. Gallagher to show the store owners.”

  “Where did you get their photographs?” PC Gomez asked.

  “Harris’s is from the department’s Force Record File and Mrs. Gallagher’s is from a newspaper clipping.”

  “Why theatrical makeup?” McKenzie asked.

  “Because if our perp was a woman, the stuff she used to look like a man sure as hell wasn’t bought in the five-and-ten.”

  Leaning his head back against his headrest, the PC closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “What else have you done?”

  “I have people out checking on the owners of the Luv-Joy Manufacturing Company.”

  “Why?” the PC asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “We have Gallagher visiting the Santorini Diner on a regular basis for a couple of weeks. The diner is located near the Luv-Joy plant. Gallagher visited the diner during his tour of duty. He had access to a lot of the company’s products. There is a connection, and I want to find out what it is. It might prove to be nothing, and then again, it could be important,” Scanlon said.

  “What else?” the PC asked, his eyes still closed, the deceptive calmness of his voice causing a knowing glance to pass between Scanlon and Herman the German.

  “I took it upon myself to ask Inspector Schmidt to come here today because Harris is assigned to his command. I’d like Inspector Schmidt to keep Harris busy, fly him on details. I’m going to start snooping, and I’d prefer it if he wasn’t around.”

  “Do you think that Harris and Mrs. Gallagher were making it together?” the PC asked.

  “I don’t know,” Scanlon said, “but if they were, and she didn’t know about his thing with Luise Bardwell, then we just might have a wedge to drive between them.”

  “Before you use any wedges, you come to me with some solid evidence linking them to the crime,” Gomez said.

  “Are you thinking of using wires?” McKenzie asked.

  “I’ve decided against using them,” Scanlon said.

  Surprised, the PC asked, “Why?”

  “Because of Section 700.50 of the Criminal Procedure Law,” Scanlon explained. “After the eavesdropping warrant expires, you’re required to notify the subscriber that you had a wire on his telephone. This case could run longer than sixty days, and I don’t want them to know that we’re on to them.”

  “You’re going to need extra men on this one,” the PC said. “I’m going to assign some people from the Internal Affairs Division to help you out.”

  “If you don’t mind, Commissioner, I’d rather not use anyone from IAD. I believe their involvement in this case would be counterproductive.”

  Bewildered, the PC asked, “Why?”

  Scanlon said, “Because the people in IAD are all mealy-mouthed scumbags who consider street cops to be the enemy. And because all of my detectives are fallen angels, and none of them would be able to work with anyone from IAD.”

  Scowling, the PC appeared on the edge of rebuking him when Herman the German jumped into the fray: “Commissioner, it might not be prudent to bring IAD into this case, at the present time.”

  “And why the hell not?” the PC asked.

  “Because if we are able to bring this case to a successful conclusion, you will be able to take the credit for personally directing the internal investigation that resulted in arrests, thereby blunting the harmful publicity that the case is bound to generate. And that can only be done if you maintain control of the case.”

  In an annoyed tone, the PC said, “The CO of IAD reports directly to me.”

  “I realize that, sir,” the inspector said, “but I also know that the special prosecutor has his own spies in IAD who report directly to him. And under the special prosecutor’s mandate from the governor, he has the legal authority to take over the Gallagher/Zimmerman matter once there is any hint of police corruption.” A glint came into his deep-set eyes. “So why let him know? If he ever got wind of this case he’d snap it up in a second. It’s tailor-made for his journey to the Governor’s Mansion. And then we’d be on the outside, unable to see what the hell was happening on the inside, and more important, unable to protect our own asses.”

  “You can always notify the special prosecutor later,” Scanlon added with a crafty smile. “Especially if the case goes nowhere. Just pass him the ball and step back.”

  The PC stared down at the black onyx desk set that was embossed with miniature replicas of police shields from patrolman to police commissioner. The set had been presented to him at the Hispanic Association’s Man of the Year Award dinner in 1983.

  Scanlon noticed the PC’s forlorn stare and guessed what he was thinking. It had been a long, hard haul from walking a foot post to sitting behind Teddy Roosevelt’s desk on the fourteenth floor of One Police Plaza. He had stayed on the Job too long, a common mistake. He wanted to get out, but he wanted to leave with his three-quarter PC’s pension intact. Another major scandal and the mayor might be forced to ask for his resignation. Only five months to go before he was eligible for that pension, five long, precarious months.

  Gomez looked up at Scanlon, held his eyes, sensing that he had read his thoughts. “Where would you get the extra men that you need, Lieutenant?”

&n
bsp; “I would use some of Lieutenant Fable’s detectives from the Nineteenth Squad. It’d be a joint investigation directed and coordinated personally by the PC,” Scanlon said.

  A perverse smile lit on the PC’s handsome face. “You got some line of shit, Lou.”

  “It’s hard surviving in the real world, boss,” Scanlon said.

  “Tell me about it,” Gomez countered. “And while you’re at it, someone tell me how we’re going to keep this from the CofD.”

  “I don’t see how you can, now,” Scanlon said.

  “Goldberg is going to have to be brought in on the case,” the PC said, “but that’s my problem.”

  Scanlon and Herman the German walked out into the bright sunlight and moved along the tree-lined arcade that connected police headquarters with the open square of Police Plaza.

  Scanlon veered off to the right and sat down on one of the concrete cubes. Herman the German followed and sat next to him. “Wonder why the PC wanted McKenzie to remain behind?” the inspector said.

  “My guess is that he wanted to discuss how to gracefully bring the CofD into the case,” Scanlon said.

  “Ain’t no graceful way, not now. Too much time has gone by.”

  “Bobby Boy will think of something. He always does.” Scanlon looked upward at the budding maple tree.

  Herman the German glanced at him. “Thanks for bringing me into the case the way you did. You’ve probably saved my career.”

  “When you allowed me to remove Gallagher’s records I told you I’d do the right thing if I could.”

  The inspector smiled bitterly and said, “A lot of people in this Job threaten to do the right thing, but they seldom do.”

  They sat in silence, watching the passing crowd; policemen hurrying in and out of police headquarters, civilian employees on extended coffee breaks. Music wafted through the air from a string quartet playing in Police Plaza. Both of them saw familiar faces from the Job and acknowledged faces with mouthed how-are-yous and quick handwaves. The inspector leaned forward, his beefy hands clasped between his legs. “McKenzie was right, you know—you just might be wrong on this one. All you have is motive, and the similarities of a few composite sketches, some peanut shells, and some inadmissible evidence garnered under hypnosis.”