“We’re three aging dinosaurs hanging around for that meteor to come hurling down from space and make us extinct,” Scanlon said.
“I fuck ’em where they breathe,” Fable said again.
Brodie and Christopher rushed up to them. “The lab boys just called,” Brodie said. “Harris’s boots match up with the impressions found on the roof of the Kingsley Arms. It’s a positive match, Lou. And the tools found in the duffel bag were the same tools that were used to force open the roof door.”
The door behind them opened, and Harris’s attorney stepped out into the corridor.
“Gentlemen, I have just spoken to my clients at some length. And at this time I am officially advising you that under no circumstances are my clients to be questioned by any member of the police department.”
“Clients, Counselor?” Scanlon said.
“I have just gotten off the phone with Mary Ann Gallagher. She has asked me to represent her.”
23
Kings County Criminal Court is located on Schermerhorn Street, in Brooklyn’s once-fashionable downtown shopping district, which has been urbanized into a seedy neighborhood of hawking street peddlers, shuttered shops, and caged-in stores where customers had to be buzzed inside.
The court’s arraignment part was on the first floor of the Baroque-style building. All conversation stopped when Scanlon walked into the police sign-in room. The monster had arrived. A notification tucked into the sign-in log was waiting for Scanlon: “Lt. Scanlon. After you draw up complaint see ADA Goldfarb in Rm 617.”
ADA Goldfarb was a short man in his late twenties who had gone prematurely bald. He was dressed in a dark business suit and wore an orange tie. “Let’s go into the conference room, Lieutenant.”
Scanlon noticed that the assistant district attorney favored built-up heels. He followed the ADA into the glass cubicle.
“I’m handling the arraignment part this morning, Lieutenant. I’ve read over your complaint and your attending affidavits. And, I have to tell you, your case against Sergeant Harris is flimsy, at best. You are going to have to come up with a lot more hard evidence if you expect the People to win on this one.” He sat down wearily in one of the two battered chairs.
“We have evidence that ties Harris directly to the scene of the Zimmerman homicide in Manhattan County,” Scanlon said in mild protest.
“Ah, yes, the famous cowboy boots. But can you state with any degree of probability when those impressions were made? A week before the doctor and his wife were killed? A month? The same night?” The ADA quickly lit a cigarette. “And you have absolutely no evidence linking Harris to the murders of Lieutenant Gallagher and Yetta Zimmerman. Your fingerprint evidence is dubious—there were other prints on that form. As for the typewriter, anyone assigned to that unit could have typed out that order. In fact, I’m only going to allow you to charge Harris on the Zimmerman homicide, not on Gallagher’s. The court would throw it out on the ground of insufficient evidence. I think you might just have enough evidence to hold Harris on the doctor and his wife. But nowhere near enough to get a conviction.”
“Are you forgetting that I saw Harris toss that duffel bag over the embankment, and that that duffel bag contained the tools that were used to pry open the roof door of the Kingsley Arms, the same roof from where the shots were fired that killed the doctor and his wife?”
The ADA got up and started pacing the floor. “What you saw, Lieutenant, was Harris throw what appeared to be a duffel bag over the embankment and onto the highway. You are in no position to testify as to the contents of that duffel bag. Nor can you state beyond a reasonable doubt that the duffel bag that your people recovered from the highway was the same duffel bag that you say you saw Harris throw over the embankment.”
Scanlon got up and felt rage growing inside him. “Are you telling me that the tools and the makeup are not admissible as evidence?”
“I’m telling you that I would not be surprised if the court sustained a defense motion to suppress them as evidence.” The ADA stabbed out his cigarette. “Were Harris’s fingerprints found anywhere on the duffel bag or on any of the tools or makeup?”
Scanlon sighed deeply. “No.” He shook his head with disgust. “Tell me what I need for a conviction.”
“A lot more than you have. Look, Lieutenant. I only handle the arraignments. I suggest you have a talk with one of our trial ADAs. One of them will be able to put you on the right track.”
“Do you think we have enough to indict Harris on the Zimmerman murders?”
“Oh, sure. We can indict the Statue of Liberty. The problems come afterward.”
Deputy Chief MacAdoo McKenzie stood in the center of the court’s lobby, watching the ornate brass doors of the bank of elevators.
“Over here,” he said, waving to Scanlon as the lieutenant stepped off the elevator.
“This Harris arrest has got the Palace Guard jumping,” McKenzie said. “We’re going to end up in the middle of a million-dollar lawsuit. Harris is going to walk. You and your people fucked it up, Lieutenant. Harris beat you to the punch when you allowed him to get rid of that duffel bag.”
“Be advised, Chief, that I didn’t let Harris do anything. And be further advised that we’re going to convict both Harris and his girlfriend.”
“How? You didn’t even have enough evidence against Harris to arrest him for killing Joe Gallagher. And you can’t even go near Mrs. Gallagher to question her. You don’t have one drop of evidence against her.” He wiped his neck. “The PC has directed me to tell you to stay away from Mrs. Gallagher. Don’t try to question her, don’t go near her. Her lawyer telephoned the PC and threatened to sue him personally if anything is said or done by any member of the department to besmirch her unblemished reputation. So from now on, as far as this department is concerned, Mrs. Gallagher is no longer a suspect.”
Scanlon sneered. “Ol’ Bobby Boy is a real stand-up PC.”
“He’s a politician looking out for his own ass, just like you would be if you were in his place.”
Herman the German, Jack Fable, and the Nine-three Squad detectives were gathered in a circle outside the padded courtroom doors of Part 1A. The circle parted for Scanlon. Hector Colon said, “Teniente, I’ve contacted José Rodriguez from the Hispanic Association. He’s going to reach out to our members and ask them to have a look-see around El Barrio for the car with the venetian blinds.”
Scanlon’s eyes locked on Colon’s. “Did you enjoy your party?”
The detective shifted uncomfortably, looked away. “It was all right, Lou.”
“I’ve been in touch with the uptown brothers,” Biafra Baby said. “They’re going to be hitting some of the juice joints and number parlors.”
Higgins added, “From the description of the driver there is a good chance that he’s gay. I’ve gotten in touch with Sergeant Rogers, the head of GOAL. He’s going to have some of our people hit the baths and gay bars.”
“I want you all to go back to the Squad and pull out everything we’ve got on the case. When the arraignment is over I’ll come back and we’ll put our collective heads together and see if there’s anything we’ve missed,” Scanlon ordered.
“I’ll have my people do the same thing,” Fable said.
“Please, Jack. Speak to the detectives in your Squad who worked on the Zimmerman case. Maybe one of them scratched something on the back of a matchbook, then forgot to put it on a Five.” Scanlon turned to his detectives. “And that goes for all of you. Check your notes, every scrap of paper, every matchbook, see if there’s anything you’ve overlooked.”
The echo of the detectives walking away resounded off the marble floor. Scanlon looked at Herman the German. “You going inside to watch the arraignment?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m into legal flagellation.”
An atmosphere of anxious expectation filled the courtroom. All the seats were filled. Scanlon spotted Mary Ann Gallagher, dressed in mourning black, sitting on the aisle in
the middle of the room. She was whispering to the man next to her. Scanlon inched his way around the paneled wall to see if he could recognize the man she was talking to. He did. Ben Cohen, one of the criminal justice system’s better-known bail bondsmen.
Scanlon was taken aback when he spotted Linda Zimmerman sitting across the room. He moved along the wall until he reached her and squeezed in next to her. “You all right?” he whispered.
Her stare was fixed on the ornate bench that dominated the courtroom. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“I’m sorry for what happened in the bank.”
She made no reply.
The court clerk stood in front of the bench and barked: “All rise. This court is now in session. The Honorable Florence Meyers presiding.” A rustle swept through the courtroom as the assemblage rose to its feet, and then at the court clerk’s signal, sat.
The first case on the arraignment calendar was called. The People against George Harris. Scanlon pinned on his shield and went up and stood before the bench. Two court officers escorted the prisoner into the courtroom from the holding pens behind the room. Harris needed a shave. Berke, the defense attorney, held an impromptu conference with his client.
The court clerk said to Scanlon, “Officer, raise your right hand. Do you swear or affirm to the truth of your affidavit?”
“I do.”
“George Harris,” the court clerk intoned, “you have been charged with violation of section 125.25 of the Penal Law in that on—”
Defense attorney: “Your honor, if it pleases the court, the defense waives the reading of the charges.”
Judge Meyers: “So ordered.”
Defense attorney: “Your honor, the defense moves for an immediate hearing on this matter, and respectfully requests that the court release the defendant on his personal recognizance.”
ADA: “May I remind the court that this is a homicide case. The People have in my judgment presented a prima facie case and request bail be set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
The judge flipped through the legal papers, scanning. “Your prima facie case appears to be a bit weak, Counselor.”
Defense attorney: “Your honor, my client is a ranking member of the police department. He has an unblemished professional and personal record. He has a family, a home. He has roots in the community. He’s not going to run. And I say now, in open court, that I fully expect my client to be exonerated of these trumped-up charges.”
ADA: “Your honor—”
Judge: “Save it for the hearing, Counselor. Bail is set at twenty-five thousand dollars. This case is bound over to the grand jury. Next case.”
Mary Ann Gallagher, and Cohen, the bail bondsman, got up from their pew. Scanlon left the courtroom, unpinning his shield. Linda Zimmerman followed him outside into the lobby. She caught up with him and seizing him by the arm demanded, “What the hell is going on?”
He led her around one of the marble columns, out of sight of the people leaving the courtroom. “Linda, there is a lot more to the case than you’ve heard on the radio or read in the papers. And I guess you have the right to know it all.”
He went on to tell her about his suspicions concerning Harris and Mrs. Gallagher. As he explained to her the restrictions that had been placed on him, he could see a mounting sense of outrage in her face. He had almost finished when a sudden commotion caused them to step out from behind the column. Mary Ann Gallagher, Harris, Cohen, and the defense lawyer, Berke, were leaving the courtroom. A group of newspaper reporters surrounded them. The defense lawyer said that his client would have nothing to say at this time. Two women pushed their way through the crowd and embraced Mrs. Gallagher.
“Pat? Joan? How nice of you to come,” Mrs. Gallagher said, glancing over at Scanlon and Linda Zimmerman. Harris walked away with Mrs. Gallagher. He kept looking over his shoulder at Scanlon, a smile of victory fixed on his lips.
“You,” Linda Zimmerman hissed at Scanlon. “You call this justice? Harris is allowed to leave the courtroom on the arm of his whore. And you can’t even arrest her.”
“Linda, this is only the first round.”
“You go to hell,” she screamed into his face and stormed off.
Scanlon stood at the top of the steps of the Manhattan Criminal Court building watching the lunchtime flow of people entering and leaving. When he saw Jane Stomer push her way outside he was instantly aware of the perfection of her body and the lustrous beauty of her lips. He also became acutely conscious of how lonely his life had been without her.
She stopped and swept the sunglasses from her face. She glared at him briefly, then turned and pushed her way back into the building.
He ran after her, catching up with her halfway across the marble lobby. “I need your professional advice,” he said, snagging her arm.
She turned. “I half expected you to show up here. The word that I hear is that you really missed the boat on Harris.”
“I need your help. Let me buy you lunch, please.”
“If you keep it on a professional plane, okay. Otherwise, let’s just forget the whole thing.”
They left the building by the rear exit. He went up to the frankfurter cart and ordered two with sauerkraut and onions, and two diet sodas. Reaching out to pluck napkins from the holder, he caught sight of her watching him.
They walked across the street and sat on a park bench. Gripping her bun with both hands, she bit into the frank’s protruding end and waited for him to begin.
He spoke in an unhurried manner, telling her of his feel for the case; he spoke of how the evidence against Harris had been developed; he told her how the arrest had been made; at length he spoke of the ban against his questioning Mrs. Gallagher.
She listened, occasionally sucking soda through a straw. He noticed how her lipstick branded the tip. When he finished talking, he took a bite of his hot dog, waiting for her response. She carefully wiped mustard off her fingers. “The Brooklyn ADA was correct. The case is a throw-out. You have no corroborative evidence linking Harris or Mrs. Gallagher to any of the homicides. And you have no evidence that proves intent. The ‘death-gamble’ benefits aren’t evidence, although they do create a strong presumption. What you have to do is prove an overt act in furtherance of the conspiracy. If you had arrested Harris with the weapons in his possession along with the tools and the makeup, you would have had a conviction. But you still would not have had a case against Mrs. Gallagher.” She drank the rest of her soda. “The only way you are going to make a case against her is to turn Harris. If you can make him roll over, he’ll spit her up to save his own hide. But that means a plea bargain, and Harris doing less than life.”
“Any suggestions?”
“I’d go for the guns. If you can recover them, you just might be able to trace them back to Harris. Then, with the fingerprint evidence, and the typewriter, and the boots, you just might be able to make a case against him. And if the case is strong enough, he might want to make a deal.”
“There are a lot of ifs and mights,” Scanlon said. “What about getting the guns admitted into evidence, if I should be able to recover them?”
“If the serial numbers are still on them, and you can trace them back to their original purchaser, and that purchaser is proved to be Harris, then you might have a shot at getting them introduced.”
“Anything else?”
“Canvass the banks in the area of where they live and work. That bank money order for the makeup was purchased someplace, and whoever got it had to fill out a request form. I’d also check out the libraries to see if one of them took out a book on how to apply makeup.” She balled her napkin and pressed it through the hole in the soda can. “Is it worth it all, Scanlon? The frustration, the aggravation, trying to circumvent a system that just doesn’t seem to care, or want to care?”
“I think it is,” he said, taking the soda can from her hand and getting up. He pushed the garbage down in the wire refuse basket and came back.
She smiled and s
aid, “Thank you for the flowers. They were lovely. But I wish you hadn’t sent them.”
“I read somewhere that flowers were the quickest way to a woman’s heart.” He raised his shoulders, let them fall. “I wanted you to know how I felt about you.”
“Please, Scanlon. Don’t make it any harder than it already is.”
“It ain’t easy being a pining middle-aged detective.”
“Pining, Scanlon? You?”
“Yes, pining. To have a continuing fruitless desire.”
“And that is what you have for me, a fruitless desire?”
He placed his hand on hers. “I screwed us up and now I’m trying to put us back together again. And everything I say or do seems to be wrong.”
She pulled her hand away from his. “Sending flowers was the right thing.”
“Then I’ll send more.”
“Please don’t. I told you the last time, I’m involved with someone.”
“You’re not being fair to Mr. Whateverhisnameis.”
“Who?”
“The guy you’re seeing.” He started to make finger circles on the back of her hand. “I believe that you’re only seeing him to get over me. I think that you’re still in love with me. And that isn’t being upfront with Mr. Whateverhisnameis.”
“And where, may I ask, did you acquire your sudden insight into how women think and act?”
“From my shrink, Dr. De Nesto.”
“You finally went to see a psychiatrist?”
“Yes, I did. I wanted to learn why I acted the way I did when I lost my leg. To help me understand why I couldn’t let you share it with me.”
“Was Dr. De Nesto able to help you understand?”
“Yes, Jane. I’ve learned a lot about myself and what makes me tick.”
“I’m proud of you, Tony,” she said, placing her hand on his. “It took a lot for a man like you to bare your soul to someone.”
He looked down at her hands, said shyly, “I had the right motivation. I realized after I had lost you just how much you meant to me. And, well, I hoped that by understanding why I acted the way I did, I might be able to win you back.”
Suspects Page 40