Stoner sat wordless and motionless, shrouded by a sense of terrible failure, a failure for which Rafe had paid with his life. A good-looking boy, the Commissioner had said, because that was all the Commissioner could think of to say. He hadn’t selected the kid from a list of prospective patrolmen waiting to be sworn in. He hadn’t done the careful, meticulous screening of the kid from the day he was born on some sharecropper’s farm in North Carolina, through his childhood in an orphanage and his adolescence with an elderly maiden aunt who owned a shack in Virginia. The Commissioner didn’t know Rafe: busboy, shoeshine boy, clean-’em-up-boy, yes-sir-yes-ma’am scary-eyed little Southern black boy heading north to better things. The kid had arrived in New York two years ago: soft-spoken and twenty-one with no big dream, no big plan. Just a little old down-home kid with no living relative left, he had put on his one neat dark suit, a fresh shirt and narrow tie and got a job in the stockroom of a department store the second day he hit New York. A nice kid, the manager of the stockroom told Stony—gentleman, polite, intelligent. He spent his nights taking courses at City College, adding up a few credits—painfully, for he hadn’t any special aptitude for academic learning, but he tried. A slow-moving, deliberate young man, taking life a step at a time.
The patrolman’s exam represented no great dedication, no lifelong ambition, just an opportunity open to him with some good possibilities. Stoner Martin had made the selection; he had narrowed the choice to three boys and submitted his recommendations to Reardon, but it was Stoner who ultimately made the selection and had to make the approach.
It was a rotten deal, no matter what. If he had turned the offer down, they would have found some excuse to scratch him. (Rafe, you should have said no. Hands down—no.) They would have had to turn him down. By the time Stoner finished talking to him, Rafe knew too much. But Rafe Wheeler had listened, nodding occasionally, his smooth young face a mask revealing nothing, his bright eyes absorbing everything. Stoner hadn’t conned him; he’d laid it right on the kid. It would be undercover all the way, from the private swearing-in ceremony to—whatever. When the boy spoke, his voice had the easy, expected lilt but something more, something unanticipated: a certainty, so that for all his careful background work, Stoner had somehow underestimated him.
“I’ll have no identification with the Police Department whatever? You’ll be my only contact?”
Stoner had nodded, catching the slight hesitation but not prepared for the next question, which was asked with an odd smile playing about the boy’s lips.
“Did you pick me because I’m a little old dumb down-home boy with no connections, either back home or up here in the big bad North?”
“Strike the word ‘dumb’ and you got it.”
Rafe had smiled and Stoner had smiled and accepted the hand offered to him and Rafe Wheeler had become his boy. And now Rafe Wheeler was lying, unidentified and unclaimed, in a refrigerated locker in the city morgue and Stoner Martin could not claim him and the New York City Police Department would not claim him. An anonymous donor would send a sum of money with instructions for Rafe Wheeler’s burial in a plot in North Carolina, and the remainder of his $10,000 life insurance policy would be contributed to the Police Department’s Orphans and Widows Fund.
“We’ve been going over Patrolman Wheeler’s reports and your follow-up work of the last two months.”
Casey Reardon’s foot pressed on Stoner’s shoe. Stoner looked up, startled. He hadn’t realized that the Chief of Detectives was addressing him. “Sir?”
The Chief of Detectives was a tall, slender man with bright hair. There were still traces of blond but the silver that edged his sideburns sparked most of his thinning hair. He was a handsome man who would have been boyish except for webs of fine lines that extended from the corners of his eyes down into his cheeks. “From your work with Patrolman Wheeler, do you have any idea of what might be involved today?” His eyes were the color of granite flecked with bright glints of mica.
Stoner shook his head, shifting his thoughts away from Rafe because Rafe was dead and not what mattered at the moment. “No, sir, but it’s tied in with the infiltration of the Freedom-for-All group. Patrolman Wheeler and a fellow named Eddie Champion”—Stoner’s hand waved vaguely toward the sheaf of papers on the Commissioner’s desk—“were instructed by the Royal Leader of the Secret Nation to infiltrate the FFA. There are five or six other members of the SN in the various chapters of the FFA—scattered around. That would be enough to stir things up from nonviolent to anything goes. All Rafe told me”—he dropped his head and spoke with his eyes closed tightly for a moment, remembering the soft voice, then the silence, then the dead telephone line—“all he had a chance to tell me was that there was going to be a shooting at the construction site.”
“God damn it,” the Chief of Detectives said, turning his back on Detective Martin.
Stoner stiffened in his chair, holding himself in; it was logical for the Chief of Detectives to be annoyed by the lack of specifics. “Rafe didn’t know exactly what was planned,” he said quietly. “He had only been a member of the Royal Guards for a few months. His partner, Champion, didn’t trust him. Rafe told me two days ago that he and Champion had been given a top-secret assignment but all Champion would tell him was that it was something that would blow the top off this city.” His brain was filled with the strange, almost comic-opera words, but the reality was present among the men in this room. The Secret Nation was headed by a Royal Leader, who was protected by a group of young men called the Royal Guards, who had powers of life and death over whatever victim they chose for whatever reason. The Chief of Detectives and the Commissioner had become used to the words and familiar with the reality of them through police reports describing violent death and senseless beatings and fulfilled threats, and they knew that the Secret Nation did, in fact, exist.
“Eddie Champion,” the Chief of Detectives said thoughtfully. “You onto him?”
The detective’s long fingers rolled into his palms and he raised his eyes. “I will be,” he said. “They were staying at a dump on the West Side the last two days. I only had two contacts from Rafe. Champion stuck close to him and he couldn’t get to me. We have people staked out at Champion’s apartment uptown, at his girl friend’s place—anywhere he might show.”
“Will it be difficult to bag him on this shooting? Seems to me,” the Commissioner said, “it will be tough.”
“We’ll bag him,” Stoner said, “one way or another.”
“There’s only one way we want him,” Reardon said, watching Stoner closely. “We want him right.”
The Chief of Detectives was curious. “I thought none of the SN people were allowed to carry weapons. I thought that was rule number-one.”
“It is. The whole idea has been that none of the people carry weapons. That’s why they’ve been trained in karate.” Stoney fought to hang onto the sense of his words, but Rafe intruded: My Lord, Stoner, the things these folks are teaching us. My hands are like to break in half. Stoner shifted in his chair and his voice was forced. “Rafe told me that Champion has been getting ready to make his move. There has been a lot of dissension in the group for a long time. The old man—the Royal Leader—has been having his troubles with some of his brightest boys. They have been getting edgy, hungry for action. For some of the blood and cracked skulls they’ve been promised. Word has been going around that some weapons have been collected. The old man has been getting more and more suspicious of everyone around him—and with reason. He runs a tight ship, strict chain of command. He trusts nobody. The penalty for any member of the SN who possesses a weapon is death. Originally, the rule was so that his people, if picked up by the police, were clean. None of his people have yellow sheets—that’s rule number-two. Now it appears that the no-weapon rule is more for the protection of the old man. You get caught: boom, chop and you’re out!” Stoner’s hand slashed the air.
“Then why do you suppose that Eddie Champion not only had a gun but risked using i
t on Patrolman Wheeler?” the Police Commissioner asked.
“He was getting worried about Rafe: no special reason, just a general distrust—who’s on what side of the split. He walked in on Rafe when he was contacting me. If he had chopped him instead, that would have been an admission that he was careless, nearly took a cop along on a big one. It would have shown poor judgment and that would just about eliminate Champion. The old man would have fingered him, and chop!”
“I suppose that’s one way of eliminating incompetents,” the Chief of Detectives observed sourly. It was a bitter, offhand, casual comment and the Chief of Detectives didn’t see Stoner Martin spring from his chair, his face contorted.
Casey Reardon had seen; his eyes never left Stoner and he moved swiftly, his hands lunging for Stoner’s shoulders, pulling him back. The Chief of Detectives turned, startled at the sudden commotion behind him.
“He didn’t mean that, for Christ’s sake. Get hold of yourself, Stoney,” Reardon ordered as he forced the detective back into the chair. Stoney, speechless, breathed in short, shallow gasps.
The Chief’s face seemed etched by a million hair-fine wrinkles. “Did you think I meant Patrolman Wheeler? My God.”
Stoner breathed his words in tight spurts. “That kid did one hell of a job. You got two other boys in that SN. What information have they given you? What have you learned about this Secret Nation from them? Rafe Wheeler told us all we really know. He died telling me. You think he was incompetent?”
“No, I don’t. I think he was one hell of a cop and I wish we had a hundred more like him,” the Chief said. “I wish we could put what he did in headlines and in all official Department reports and that we could put him up for promotion. But we can’t do any of those things. All we can do is work with what we’ve learned through his efforts.”
Stoner lit a cigarette, brushed Reardon’s hand off his shoulder. “Okay. I’m just uptight about this whole thing. Sorry.”
The Commissioner cleared his throat and indicated several large sheets on his desk. “The Chief Inspector has been notified to put a large contingent at the construction site and we have emergency service vehicles close at hand. But a shooting—it could be anyone. The target, I mean.” His hand swept the room as though a bullet might be aimed from or to any corner, and no one contradicted him. “Well, then, we can only exert as much readiness as humanly possible. Chief, have you made arrangements to give Mr. Reardon all the assistance he needs in running Champion down?”
The Chief of Detectives held his hands palms up. “Whatever he wants.”
“I got all the people I need, Commissioner. Our main hope is to find Champion. I’ve sent some of my people down to the demonstration and the Chief gave me an additional twenty men. If you don’t need us here, Detective Martin and I will get down to the site now.”
The Commissioner stood up and they all got to their feet. “If only this heat would break. This damn New York heat. Too many hot, uncomfortable, unhappy people on the streets as it is.”
Stoner Martin felt cold: cold in the air-conditioned room, right to the base of his spine, as though he were lying in a refrigerated tomb. He nodded briskly at the Chief of Detectives and followed Reardon’s quick jerking exit signal. They walked through the elegance of the mirrored waiting room and both felt assaulted by the hot thick air as they passed through the wide, breathless corridor.
As they entered the waiting black Pontiac, Tom Dell started the engine. Reardon dialed his office, his eyes on his watch. “Any word from Opara?” he asked whoever took the call. He swore softly into the receiver, his eyes remaining on it after he replaced it in its cradle.
“You coming with me, Casey—to the site?” Stoner asked.
“Yeah,” Reardon said, and gave terse directions to Tom Dell. He was silent for a moment, then turned to Stoner and said softly, “In addition to everything else, we might run into Christie Opara and my daughter Barbara up there.”
SEVEN:
DETECTIVE CHRISTIE OPARA WAS part of the hot, jostling, disagreeable subway rush-hour crowd, her body prodded, shoved and resented, suffering the countless discomforts and annoyances. Yet her mind remained cool and clear and free of all physical distractions. It was a matter of concentration, and her attention was centered on the odd detour that Casey Reardon’s daughter had taken. Christie had watched Barbara Reardon board the bus at the top of the hill, had gotten on the bus behind a woman with a large shopping bag, paid her fare, sat at the back of the bus, keeping the girl in view. They had both entered the subway, Christie using a token instead of showing her shield. They had detrained at the proper station for transfer to an uptown train to Columbia, and then the girl had hesitated, turned and walked to the downtown BMT platform.
Christie had long ago lost any scruples about throwing her slight but strong and wiry body into a crowd. When Barbara Reardon boarded the train, Christie wedged her way into the jammed mob and felt the doors, sticky and warm, close against her shoulders. She kept her eyes on the dark ponytail which was tied with a red ribbon. It was all she could see of the girl at this point; it flashed back and forth within the swaying train. The rest of her was hidden, the bright red cotton dress obscured on all sides by anonymous shoulders and torsos.
As the train rocked, the crowd moved, subtly changing position and stance. Barbara was forced to turn and Christie looked beyond the girl, keeping her expression impassive and blank: the kind of face that would not register on the awareness of her subject.
The crowd thinned out considerably by the time the train reached Delancey Street and Christie sat gazing at The New York Times, but she was not reading. She kept the bright flash of red dress under observation, then moved for the door when Barbara exited. This delayed action caused some slight consternation on the part of a small, elderly man who was attempting to enter the train, his arms filled with bulky, string-tied packages. Christie ignored the muttered complaints about her stupidity. The important thing was that at no point throughout the trip had Barbara Reardon noticed her.
As her face was hit by the bright glare of sunshine, Christie made two slight adjustments in her appearance. She tied the small navy kerchief around her head and put on her large, round sunglasses. She dropped The New York Times in the Department of Sanitation basket on the corner of Delancey and Sheriff Streets, adjusted the straps of her handbag so that it became a shoulder bag and walked briskly, staring straight ahead of her. Barbara Reardon knew exactly where she was going and she walked rapidly through the languid, heavy, East Side summer streets.
Christie moved easily through the littered sidewalks on the opposite side of the street so that Barbara was diagonal to her. The girl stopped once and turned, looking over her shoulder, but for what reason Christie could not know. As the girl turned, Christie’s attention was engaged by the merchandise in the window of a yard-goods shop.
Barbara continued east and her destination became apparent, not through any sense of calculation on Christie’s part but by the change in the inhabitants of the street. There were groups of young people, all moving purposefully in the same direction: toward the East River Drive or, more specifically, toward the construction site for the Abraham Lincoln Low Rent Housing Development. There were flashes of brightly lettered placards: FREEDOM-FOR-ALL. The words recalled the radio commentator’s voice; she had, after all, absorbed what he had said. This group had picketed all week and was planning a massive sit-down demonstration at the site today. Christie walked faster; the young people were filling the sidewalks, spilling over into the gutters, and Reardon’s daughter was getting too far ahead.
The narrow street ended abruptly, unexpectedly, on a vast open area, newly cleared of tightly packed tenements. It had a startling, barren look, gleaming and bright and unshadowed with the drive and the river as its far boundaries. Formless areas were still identified by street signs proclaiming intersections which no longer existed, but the more important designations seemed to be displayed in large, carefully hand-painted signs which p
roclaimed FFA: QUEENS LOCAL, FFA: BRONX AFFILIATE, FFA: BROOKLYN COLLEGE-BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, countless signs indicating localities and colleges and universities throughout the city.
Christie kept her eyes relentlessly on the red of the girl’s dress but she realized she would have to move in very close now. The color was beginning to flicker in and out among the press of bodies and, worse, other flashes of red—open-necked sports shirts and casual cotton knits—were interfering with her observation. It was a good-natured crowd and the jostling was friendly, and the press of bodies yielded to her steady insistence as she cleared a narrow path for herself with sudden lurching detours, her body seeking openings in the tightening wedge of demonstrators.
Barbara Reardon was greeted by smiling faces, excited young men and women speaking in unnaturally bright voices. Christie responded to anonymous remarks directed at her, shrugged helplessly, smiled easily, pointed over the top of the crowd, explaining, “I can’t reach my group—Upper Manhattan—” The conversation around her was friendly and accepting. Christie kept within touching distance of Barbara Reardon and tried to calculate what the group was about to do.
More importantly, she tried to visualize the larger picture, for she had seen police barricades directly across from the building site, and behind those police barricades she had seen something that these kids apparently had failed to note: the beginnings of a mob.
EIGHT:
SERGEANT STANLEY FRANKEL DID not like the situation. He did not know any of the twelve men assigned to him, and as they sat inside the police van, facing him, he had no way of knowing what they were thinking or what they were feeling. They were an unknown quantity and Sergeant Frankel did not like unknown quantities.
The Witness Page 4