Suspects

by William Caunitz

  She avoided his eyes. “Was the doctor able to help you with your dysfunction problem?”

  “Yes, I was helped, I think.” He shifted in his seat. “I haven’t been with another woman yet, so I can’t be sure.”

  “In all this time?”

  “I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. The anxiety is still too much for me to cope with. I never know when or how to tell a woman that I’m an amputee. The fear of rejection can be a horror. You just can’t imagine.”

  She ran her fingers over his cheek. “I guess I never really appreciated how difficult it must have been for you.”

  “There’s another reason why I haven’t been with another woman. It … it would be like severing the bond that I feel exists between us. I just couldn’t bring myself to do that.” He looked away, wishing he could muster a single tear to run down his cheek. He faced her, leaned forward, and kissed her on the lips. Without saying a word, he got up and walked alone down the winding path.

  There should be fog, he thought. When he saw Robert Taylor play that scene, the actor walked away and disappeared into fog. The only mist he had for his dramatic walkaway was the debris from the stinking maw of a passing garbage truck. He didn’t know what had made him come on that way with her. It must have been his cop instincts telling him to play on her sympathy, to use her maternal nature for his benefit. What the hell, he thought, all’s fair in love, war, and the Job.

  24

  Mary Ann Gallagher was dressed in a white nightgown. She was sitting on her bed doing her toenails. The sharp smell of nail polish remover filled the air around her. Her bedside radio played soft music. The last of the biddies had left an hour ago, and she was happy and content to be alone to pamper herself and to think of Harris and everything that had happened these past days. She had known all along that Harris had underestimated Scanlon. From her first meeting with him she knew that Scanlon was a man to be wary of. She had seen that keen sense of determination in those dark eyes of his. She had warned Harris to get rid of those damn guns, but no, he had to have it his way. She could never understand men’s fascination with firearms. The lawyer had told her that they had no case against Harris, and she believed him. But no matter what happened with Harris, she was in the clear. There was no way Scanlon or anyone else could ever connect her with any of it. Damn! I smudged the polish, she thought. She took a cotton ball and wiped off the polish and started over.

  She had been married to Gallagher long enough to have learned that even if Harris tried to save himself by giving her up, she was safe because there was no corroboration. They’d need some evidence tending to connect her with the commission of the crime. And that evidence did not exist. She had seen to that. It was Harris who had bought everything they needed. It was he who had stolen the van and had gotten the makeup. The more she ran the whole thing over in her head the more secure she felt.

  Soon she would be receiving the money from Gallagher’s death gamble. And then it would be off to Europe and the good life. All those sexy European men with their heart-throb accents and trim bodies. She was glad in a way that Harris had been arrested. It would be easier now for her to dump him. She would just make up some excuse to go away by herself and disappear.

  She wanted men in her life who would satisfy her needs and desires. There would be no more cops in her life, that was for sure. She was sick to death of cops and their infantile desires.

  The doorbell. Oh, hell. Don’t those biddies ever give up and go to bed? She screwed the brush into the polish bottle and got up from the bed, sliding her pink bathrobe off the chair. The bell rang again.

  Putting the bathrobe on, she moved down the hall toward the door, calling out, “Yes, who is it?”

  “It’s me, dear. Pat.”

  Cursing under her breath, Mary Ann Gallagher unlatched the door.

  A figure loomed on the other side, its hands gripping a weapon, primed to strike the moment the victim came into view. A glossy Botticelli shopping bag that had been used to transport the weapon was on the floor. The hallway was deserted. No sounds came from the other apartments. It was as though the building were deserted.

  The door swung open and Mary Ann Gallagher came into view. She gasped and her mouth fell open. Before the scream could reach her lips the blade struck her neck. A horrible gurgle burst from her throat the moment the blow was struck. Smothering the wound with her hands, Mary Ann Gallagher whirled and ran down the hallway as though seeking out safety in the depths of her home. She tottered into the bedroom.

  The killer put the weapon into its carrying bag, took hold of the white handles, stepped into the apartment, and kicked the door closed. The victim lay writhing on the bedroom floor, making ghastly noises. The killer moved across the room and stood by the side of the bed, watching the death throes. A cigarette was lit and the lighter carefully put down on the bed next to the Botticelli shopping bag.

  Mary Ann Gallagher trembled with violent spasms; her extremities thrashed about the floor. Her body stiffened in a final convulsion and fell still.

  The killer reached out and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray on top of the radio. Glancing at the body, the killer noticed that there were no underpants. A woman should be modest even in death. The corpse’s nightclothes were pulled down.

  The doorbell rang. The killer grabbed the shopping bag and ran from the room. Tiptoeing down the hall, the killer stood by the door, listening to the conversation on the other side.

  “Mary Ann, it’s us, Pat and Joan. We’ve come back to keep you company.”

  Silence.

  “I wonder where she can be?”

  “Maybe the poor dear went to sleep early? It has been a trying day for her, what with what happened to that nice Sergeant Harris and all.”

  “Why don’t we come back in the morning?”

  “Footsteps moved away from the door, down the staircase.

  The killer cracked the door and looked out, saw no one, and slipped from the apartment, moving quickly over to the stairs leading to the upper floors.

  The killer climbed to the middle of the stairs and pressed against the wall, listening to the conversation that was taking place in the vestibule, two floors below. Maybe Mary Ann was in the bathroom or washing her hair in the sink and didn’t hear us. Do you think we should try once more? Yes.

  Padding footsteps coming back upstairs. A hard knock at the door. The sound of a doorknob being tried, followed by the squeak of a door being slowly opened. A gasp. “Is that blood all over? Mary Ann! Are you all right?”

  Peering over the banister, the killer saw the door ajar and no one standing there.

  Rushing down the stairs and out into the night, the killer heard a series of piercing screams.

  25

  They had done everything they could do. Now came the waiting. Waiting while banks searched their microfilm; waiting for libraries to search through old charge-out cards; waiting to hear from detective squads throughout the city. Scanlon had personally telephoned the Whips of every squad and asked them to have their people canvass their precincts for an effeminate Hispanic who drove a Chevrolet with chartreuse blinds and a stuffed animal with a bobbing head.

  It was 2013 hours and they were tired and hungry.

  Scanlon suggested that they go to Monte’s to eat. He turned to Hector Colon. “Hector, you hold it down, will you? We’ll bring you back a sandwich.”

  “Right, Lou,” Colon said, switching on the television set.

  The detectives sat at one of the large tables in the rear of the restaurant. They ate in silence for the most part. No one was in the mood for conversation. They were finishing dessert when Scanlon looked across the table at Higgins and said, “Better give Hector a call and see if anything is doing.”

  She returned in a few minutes with a saucy smile on her face. Rounding the table to her seat, she bent by Scanlon and whispered, “Jane Stomer called and left a message for you to call her at home.”

  “Jane?”

  “Hi.�
� A silence, followed by the sound of her exhaling. “You were right, Scanlon. I am still in love with you. And I want you to know that there is no Mr. Whateverhisnameis. I made him up to hurt you.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” he said, thinking, Thank you, Dr. De Nesto.

  “Look, Scanlon, I really don’t know if we can make it together. I really don’t. But if you’re willing to give it another try, then so am I.”

  “I am willing, Jane.”

  “I want to start off slowly, get to know you again.”

  “Whatever you say. I’ll play by your rules. Dinner, tomorrow?”

  “That sounds nice. Say eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll pick you up.” Pause. “I love you, Jane.”

  “Me too, Tony.”

  Leaving the phone booth, Scanlon felt wonderful. Better than he had in years. He felt as though he were on his way to being a complete person again. He was going to have to call Sally De Nesto and thank her, to say goodbye. He just didn’t have any idea of what he would say. He went up to the bar and motioned for the waiter to give him the bill. He paid the tab and went back to the table. “We ready?” he said to the detectives.

  “Let’s get the tab,” Brodie said.

  “It’s taken care of,” Scanlon said.

  “Lou?” Brodie said. “You don’t gotta go around picking up our tabs.”

  “Let’s get back,” Scanlon said.

  They left the restaurant and piled into the unmarked car.

  Higgins drove. Scanlon sat in the passenger seat. The three detectives squeezed into the back. Higgins switched on the ignition. Scanlon turned on the radio.

  “In the Nine-three precinct a ten-ten. Female calls for help. 32 Anthony Street. Units going, K?”

  “That’s Gallagher’s house,” Scanlon exclaimed, grabbing the handset. “Nine-three Squad on the way.”

  “George Henry going, Central.”

  “Ten-four Squad, ten-four George Henry.”

  Mary Ann Gallagher’s two girlfriends were standing outside the bedroom screaming incoherent things at the detectives when they arrived. Scanlon rushed into the bedroom, followed by his team. He took in the body of Mary Ann Gallagher on the floor and quickly scanned the bedroom. His eyes latched on to the lighter laying atop the chenille bedspread, and then immediately switched to the crushed cigarette in the ashtray that was on the top of the bedside radio. He moved over to the bed, picked up the lighter, and put it into his pocket. Removing a tissue from the box on top of the nightstand, he snatched the cigarette butt out of the ashtray, wrapped it in the tissue, and put the evidence into his pocket.

  The crew of sector George Henry plunged into the bedroom. Scanlon told the two cops to wait out in the hall and try to calm down the two women. He went back to the body and squatted on his heels. The detectives gathered around the remains. They were alone.

  “There goes our case,” Christopher said.

  Each detective withdrew into his own thoughts.

  Scanlon thought of Joe Gallagher and Yetta Zimmerman and how they had been slaughtered. He thought of Dr. Zimmerman and his wife murdered in their bed as they slept. He thought of the city’s crime victims and the countless unsolved crimes and all the misery they had caused. His frustration turned to anger. Different rules have to apply to cops who turn bad. Renegade cops who murder their own. No! Harris was not going to walk away from this. No matter what he had to do, Harris was not going to walk. He looked up at his silent detectives. His face was solemn. “I’m going to take a dying declaration from her before she dies.”

  He waited for their response.

  Brodie hunkered down next to the body. “That’s a good idea, Lou.”

  Scanlon looked at Higgins.

  “You’d better hurry before she goes out of the picture,” Higgins said.

  Biafra Baby grabbed Christopher by the arm. “Hurry, let’s call an ambulance.” He and Christopher ran excitedly from the bedroom. “Officer,” Biafra Baby shouted at the cops. “One of you wait downstairs for the ambulance and direct the attendant up here. The other get in your car and go get a priest and bring him here. Hurry!”

  The uniform men ran off.

  “She’s alive?” Pat shouted at the detectives.

  “Yes,” Christopher said. “She’s trying to give the lieutenant a statement.”

  “Praise be to God,” Joan said, blessing herself.

  Brodie came up and stood in the doorway, hampering the view into the bedroom. Biafra Baby and Christopher stood on either side of Brodie. The terrified women stood away from the door, not wanting to look inside.

  “Can you hear me, Mrs. Gallagher?” Scanlon said to the corpse. “Please try and talk louder. I can’t hear you.”

  Higgins stuck her tongue into her cheek and made gurgling sounds.

  “Mrs. Gallagher, I must ask you your name,” Scanlon said.

  Pressing her tongue into her cheek again, Higgins mumbled weakly, “Mary Ann Gallagher.”

  “Where do you live?” Scanlon asked, brushing his hand across the corpse’s eyes, closing the lids.

  “32 Anthony Street,” Higgins mumbled.

  “Do you know that you are about to die?” Scanlon asked.

  “God … forgive … me … yes … I know.”

  “Can you ladies hear?” Biafra Baby asked the two women.

  “Yes,” Joan answered for both of them.

  Christopher had his steno pad out, making a transcript of Mary Ann Gallagher’s dying declaration.

  “Mrs. Gallagher, do you have any hope of recovery?” Scanlon asked, watching the blood seep from the wound in the corpse.

  “No hope … none … a priest … please … priest,” Higgins mumbled, tongue in cheek.

  “One is on his way,” Scanlon said. “Mrs. Gallagher, will you tell me who did this to you?” He looked at Higgins, who had squatted next to him with her back to the door. “Who did this to you?” he repeated, looking at Higgins.

  She took a deep breath, jabbed her tongue against her cheek, and mumbled, “George did it … George Harris murdered me.… Afraid … I … would … tell … about … Gallagher … and … the … others.… We … did … it … together.… I … God … mercy …” She gasped. Hissed out air. Silence.

  “Sweet Jesus, did you hear that?” Joan said.

  Pat made the sign of the cross. “Mother of God.”

  Scanlon and Higgins exchanged a silent look of understanding. They stood and left the room.

  “Did you get it all?” Scanlon asked Christopher.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Word for word,” Christopher said. Scanlon was somber. He took the steno pad from Christopher, read what was written, passed the book to Pat, and said, “Will you ladies please read the transcript and sign it as witnesses?” He waited for them to read and sign the page, and then passed the book to his detectives, requiring each of them to sign the transcript.

  One of the radio car crew rushed into the apartment with a priest, who hurried into the bedroom. Scanlon noted the time and date on the top of the transcript. The other part of the George Henry crew ran into the apartment with the ambulance attendants.

  “She just expired,” Scanlon told the attendants. The older of the two attendants, a heavyset man with wild brown hair, looked into the bedroom and saw the priest standing over the body making the sign of the cross. He noted the time on his watch, and began to fill in his worksheet.

  Scanlon exchanged satisfied nods with his detectives. He motioned Biafra Baby aside and whispered, “Get on the horn to the One-two-three in Staten Island. Tell them to send some radio cars to cover Harris’s house. And tell them to put a rush on it. I wouldn’t want anyone killing him, not now.”

  Cassiopeia’s Chair twinkled in the northern sky; crickets clicked. Sequine Avenue. Amboy Road. Outerbridge Crossing. Strange names for a strange place. An island within a metropolis. The towers of Manhattan merely a vista, not a place to live in, to raise children in. Staten Island. A frame house stood at the end of Amboy Road facing
the Outerbridge Crossing. It was a dilapidated house with an untended yard; in it, a car, tireless, sat propped on concrete blocks. Harris’s Jeep Comanche was parked next to it.

  George Harris was sprawled over the sofa in his dingy living room, a can of beer resting on his stomach. He was staring up at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts. He did not hear the three radio cars that glided to a stop twenty or so yards from his house. He was thinking of the duffel bag and how lucky he had been to think of tossing it over the embankment. Now the contents of the bag could not be introduced into evidence against him. He wished that he would stop having to go to the bathroom. His lawyer told him that it was a sure bet that he’d walk away from the whole thing. But he was scared.

  It had all seemed so simple in the beginning. Foolproof. When it was over he was going to throw in his papers and retire. He and Mary Ann would sail off into the sunset with a ton of money. He wished she was there now to relax him. Damn, he had to go to the bathroom again.

  Walking from the bathroom several minutes later, buckling his belt, he was startled when a hard knocking came at the door.

  “Yeah, who is it?”

  “Lieutenant Scanlon.”

  Harris opened the door. He looked at the detectives standing behind the lieutenant. There was real fear in his voice. “What are you doing here, Scanlon?”

  “I’m here to arrest you,” Scanlon said.

  Harris walked back into his house, leaving the door open. Scanlon and the detectives followed him inside. Harris went over to the telephone that was on the table next to the couch and began dialing. “I’m calling my lawyer,” Harris said.

  “It’s kind of late at night,” Scanlon said.

  Dialing, Harris said, “And what are the trumped-up charges this time?”

  “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Mary Ann Gallagher.”

  The phone fell from Harris’s hand. He gazed with shock at the lieutenant, his mouth open, his face contorting with fear, disbelief. “Mary Ann?”

  “She gave us a dying declaration. In it she named you as her killer.”