by Len Levinson
She spun around, holding before her a frilly white dress with little red flowers on it. “Do you like this one, Daddy?”
“It’s very pretty, sweetheart. Why don’t you take it to the dressing room and try it on?”
Chapter Four
It was the next night and Rackman was back on duty driving west on Fifty-seventh Street to meet with one of his informants. His police radio was on, crackling with routine messages. As he neared the Sixth Avenue intersection, the radio broadcaster’s voice became urgent, “Signal ten-fourteen . . . signal ten-fourteen . . . Possible homicide at the Polka Dot Lounge, 757 Eighth Avenue . . . Which car responding?”
A few seconds later a patrol car in the area reported it was on its way to the scene. Immediately thereafter another patrol car said it was proceeding there too. Rackman hooked a left on Seventh Avenue and drove in that direction. The Polka Dot Lounge was in his territory, and as duty homicide detective, he’d have to file a report if a murder had actually taken place.
As he crossed Fifty-first Street, an excited male voice came on the radio, “Signal ten-eighteen . . . signal ten-eighteen . . . Car three-four-seven reporting confirmation of homicide at 757 Eighth Avenue . . . Requesting backup services. . . over.” Rackman turned on his siren and stomped on the gas. He’d had a hunch the homicide was real. The Polka Dot Lounge was a camouflaged whorehouse on the worst block in Midtown North, and people could be expected to get killed there. When the airwaves were clear he picked up his mike and reported that he was on his way over.
Cars and taxicabs pulled out of his way as he sped down Seventh Avenue, his siren wailing. Drivers and pedestrians looked at him curiously, wondering where the action was. He thundered down the center of the avenue hunched over his wheel, a Lucky dangling from the corner of his mouth. At Forty-third Street next to the big OTB parlor he screeched a right turn, shot like a cannonball to the end of the block, and turned left. Four patrol cars were parked at different angles in front of the Polka Dot Lounge, and policemen held back a crowd. Rackman parked parallel to the curb, left his car, and pushed through the crowd. When he got near one of the policemen, he showed his shield and was let through.
Rackman entered the dark, seedy bar. A bunch of hookers and two men sat at tables nervously smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. A patrolman was a few feet away, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt.
“Where’s the body?” Rackman asked.
“In one of the back rooms.”
Rackman walked through the bar, passed the pool table, and saw a patrolman standing in the rear corridor. The patrolman knew Rackman and nodded toward an open door. Rackman went inside the tiny cubicle and saw the woman lying on the floor. Her throat was slashed, his mind clicking as he flashed on Cynthia Doyle in the alley on West Forty-fifth Street. It looked like the same kind of murder.
‘‘Nobody touched anything I hope,” Rackman said to the patrolman.
“None of us did.”
“How about the people who work here?”
“They said they didn’t either.”
Rackman knelt beside the body. She was an old whore with bags under her eyes. The right side of her throat had gotten the worst of it, just like Cynthia Doyle. She lay on her back with her legs spread apart, one hand on her breast and the other twisted at her side. She probably had been unconscious before she hit the floor. Her eyes were wide open and glazed over. There was no murder weapon in view and the sheets on the bed were stained with blood. The killer had evidently wiped the murder weapon off on them.
Rackman stood up and looked around. There were footprints of men’s shoes in the blood. He left the cubicle and walked to the main room of the bar where the employees were sitting. They watched him and quieted down as he approached. He took out his shield and showed it to them.
“I’m Detective Rackman from Midtown North,’’ he said. “Did any of you see the killer?”
They nodded their heads, raised their hands, or said yes. The girls looked as hard as granite and the men would mash in your face for a dime.
“Who’s in charge here?” Rackman asked.
“I am,” said one of the men, a gorilla with thinning black hair and a bruise on his mouth.
“You saw the killer?”
“Yeah.”
“How close was he when you saw him?”
“Close enough for him to tag me.” He pointed to the bruise on his mouth.
“Come with me.”
Rackman led him to one of the booths to the rear of the pool table and told him to sit down.
“Can I smoke?” the man asked, settling himself in the chair.
“Go ahead.” Rackman sat on the bench against the wall, took out his pack of Luckies, and offered one, but the man shook his head and took out a pack of Chesterfields.
“What’s your name?” Rackman asked.
“Albert Pancaldo.”
“You’re the manager of this place?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see the killer when he came in?”
“Yeah.”
“Where were you?”
Pancaldo pointed to the front of the bar. “Sitting at one of those tables up there.”
Rackman took out his notepad and pen. “What did he look like?”
“He was a big guy, around six feet tall. Weighed maybe 250 pounds or more. He had a big gut and big arms.”
“What color hair?”
“Black.”
“Curly or straight?”
“Straight, I’d say.”
“Not wavy?”
“Straight.”
“Eyes?”
“Regular eyes.”
“You see what color they were?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“He was a white man?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever see him before?”
“Never.”
“Did he know anybody who worked here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What makes you think not?”
“Because nobody acted like they knew him.”
“How about the dead woman?”
“I don’t think she knew him either.”
“Did they talk?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“At the bar.”
“Where was she when she came in?”
“At the bar.”
“He sat next to her?”
“Yeah.”
‘‘Did it appear that they knew each other?’’
“I told you that I didn’t think she knew him.”
“Was anyone near them while they were talking?”
“The barmaid and a couple of other girls.”
“What’s the barmaid’s name?”
“Barbara Leary.”
“What’s the victim’s name?”
“Rene LeDoux.”
Sirens howled in the distance as Rackman questioned Albert Pancaldo. Personnel arrived from the photo unit, the fingerprint unit, and the medical examiner’s office. Pancaldo didn’t appear happy to have his bar crawling with cops, as he continued answering Rackman’s questions. He told of how the killer came in, sat at the bar, and went to the back room with Rene.
“And then all of a sudden the guy came out of the room,” Pancaldo said. “I thought something was wrong right off because the girls are supposed to come out first. Mackie went back to check on Rene while I tried to hold the guy up, but he sucker-punched me and ran outside. Then Mackie came back and said that Rene was dead. I told the barmaid to call the cops.”
Rackman puffed his cigarette and ran Pancaldo’s story through his mind again. “This wasn’t some kind of rub-out, was it Pancaldo?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe Rene LeDoux did something wrong and maybe you guys wiped her?”
Pancaldo slitted his eyes. “If we wanted to wipe her, we wouldn’t have wiped her here.”
“Did she have any enemies that you know of?”
“I don’t
know much about her personal life. She’s just been down from Montreal for about a month.”
“Where does she live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me the address and a phone number where you can be reached, and then tell that barmaid I want to talk to her.”
Pancaldo gave Rackman the information, then he rose and lumbered toward the tables where the girls were sitting. He said something and a pale blonde got up, looked uncertainly at Rackman, slung her bag over her shoulder, and came toward him, swinging her bony hips. Cops and lab technicians scurried back and forth through the bar, carrying equipment and pieces of paper, looking intensely for any clues.
“You wanted to see me?” the blonde asked Rackman. She had front teeth like a rabbit.
“Are you Barbara Leary?”
“Yes.”
“Have a seat.”
She sat and crossed her legs, looking surly and suspicious.
“Is Barbara Leary your real name?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live?”
“Four twenty-nine West Twenty-eighth Street.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Two months.”
“I understand you were working behind the bar when the suspect came in.”
“That’s right.”
“He sat next to Rene LeDoux?”
“Yes.”
“Did they know each other?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because they didn’t act like they knew each other.”
“What did they talk about?”
“The usual stuff.”
“What usual stuff?”
She shrugged. “You know.”
Rackman guessed that Rene LeDoux had propositioned the suspect and Barbara Leary didn’t want to say so because propositioning was against the law.
“What did the guy look like?”
“He was a fat guy.”
“White or black?”
“White.”
“Color of hair?”
“Black.”
“Longer than mine, or shorter?”
“Shorter.”
“Crew cut?”
“Not that short.”
“What did his face look like?”
“Ugly.”
“In what way?”
“He had little eyes and a little nose. And a mouth like a camel. You ever see a camel’s mouth?”
“What was he wearing?”
“One of those black and red shirt jackets made out of wool.”
“You spoke with him?”
“Uh huh.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him what he wanted to drink and he ordered a beer.”
“Did he have an accent of any kind?”
“He sounded like a regular New York guy.”
“Did he argue with Rene LeDoux?”
“No, but he was a turkey.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He was a wise guy, or thought he was. He was giving Rene a hard time about . . . the price of things.”
“They finally agreed on a price?”
“Something like that.”
“Then they went back to the room?”
“Right.”
“Then what happened?”
“A few minutes later he came out and went for the door. Al and Mackie tried to stop him, but he punched Al and split. Then we called the cops, I mean the police.”
Rackman looked at his notes. “You never saw him before.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did he speak to anybody else while he was here?”
“Sally Ray.”
“What did they talk about?”
“The same thing he talked about to Rene.”
“How tall would you say he was?”
“A little shorter than you.”
“How much did he weigh?”
“A lot.”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds?”
“I don’t know exactly, but he was a big fat guy.”
“Were you friendly with Rene LeDoux?”
“I knew her but we didn’t hang out together or anything like that.”
“Do you know where she lived?”
“In a hotel on Fifty-first Street. The Albemarle.”
“Did she live alone there?”
“She had a boyfriend. A French guy from Montreal.”
“You ever meet him?”
“Once he came in here for her.”
“You know his name?”
“Pierre. I don’t know his last name.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was a dude. Wore a suit and tie, had a mustache. He was a little taller than her, and a little on the skinny side.”
“Did Rene LeDoux have any trouble with anybody that you knew about?”
“Naw, she was pretty easy to get along with. A real laid back person, if you know what I mean. She’d been through the mill. Told me once that she was in an orphanage when she was little.”
Rackman took out one of his cards. “Call me at this number if you remember anything that you think might be important, and tell Sally Ray I want to talk to her.”
“Can I go home now?”
“You’d better hang around for awhile.”
“Can I call my babysitter?”
“Sure.”
As Barbara Leary walked away, Rackman looked over at a bunch of reporters and press photographers being escorted through the bar by a police official. One of the reporters was Dave Gurowitz of the Daily News, who knew Rackman.
“Can I speak to you for a minute?” Gurowitz asked.
“Not just yet, Dave.”
“Can’t you tell me anything?”
“I don’t know anything yet.”
“Have you linked this murder with the one on West Forty-fifth Street the other night?”
“No comment.”
“I understand her throat was cut just the like the one the other night.”
“No comment.”
“Oh come on, Rackman.”
“I said no comment.”
The police official gently nudged Gurowitz toward the back room where the body was.
Rackman looked to the front of the bar. Of course he’d linked this murder to the one last night. It was the same m.o. and the same description of the killer. He’d have to find out if there was a link between Rene LeDoux and Cynthia Doyle, or if the killer was slashing whores at random. An attractive young black woman walked toward him. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Are you Sally Ray?”
“That’s right.”
“Have a seat.”
She sat down, crossed her legs, and leaned her arm over the back of the chair. She looked like one of those pretty black girls you see in magazine ads, and here she was working in a crummy whorehouse.
“I understand you were sitting at the bar when the suspect came in,” Rackman said.
“What do you mean suspect?” she asked, raising her eyes. “If he didn’t do it, who the fuck did?”
“Just answer the questions, please. You were at the bar when he came in?”
“That’s right.”
“He sat next to you?”
“That’s right.”
“And Rene LeDoux was on the other side of him?”
“That’s right.”
“They had a conversation?”
“That’s right.”
“You heard what they spoke about?”
“Some of it.”
“What did they say?”
“You know—the usual stuff.”
“She propositioned him?”
“Well . . .”
“And then they went back to the room together?”
“Not that fast they didn’t. They didn’t hit it off so good, so I started talking to him. I didn’t get anywhere either.”
“Would you recognize him if you ever saw
him again?”
“Sure.”
“Would you recognize his voice?”
“I think so.”
“You talked about the same thing Rene LeDoux talked with him about?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything to you that you think might help us find him?”
“Well, he said his name was Harry, but I don’t know how much help that’ll be.”
“Harry?”
“Yes, Harry.”
Rackman wrote the name down although it probably was false.
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Then what happened?”
“He started talking to Rene again. Then they went back to the room together. After a little while the man came out alone. Al tried to stop him, but the man punched him and ran away. Mackie went back to the room and found that Rene was dead. We called the cops.”
From the corner of his eye, Rackman saw Inspector Jenkins and two detectives from Midtown North entering the bar. Rackman gave his card to Sally Ray and asked her to call him if she remembered anything important. Then he got up and walked to Jenkins, who evidently had just gotten out of bed to come to the scene of the crime.
“When’d you get here?” Jenkins asked in his raspy voice.
“A few minutes after the first patrol cars.”
“What’s the story?”
“It’s the same m.o. as the murder of the hooker the other night. Same description of the suspect too.”
“Who saw him?”
Rackman waved his hand toward the tables where the hookers were sitting. “Just about everybody who was working here.”
“Where’s the body?”
Rackman led him and the other two detectives down the corridor to the cubicle, where the photo and fingerprint units were at work.
“Got anything?” Jenkins asked one of the fingerprint technicians.
“Lots of them, all different.”
Jenkins looked down at the bloody body. “Didn’t anybody hear her holler for help?”
“Nobody heard anything,” Rackman replied. “Evidently the killer cut her down before she knew what was happening.”
Jenkins looked at the detectives around him. “Dancy, you take those bar people downtown and get a composite drawing made up of the killer. Rackman, find out where this victim lived and determine whether or not she knew Cynthia Doyle. Peterson, go see Cynthia Doyle’s boyfriend and find out whether he ever heard of this Rene LeDoux.”
The detectives dispersed on their various missions. Rackman went with Dancy to speak with Pancaldo once more. Rackman asked Pancaldo where the girls kept their street clothes and belongings, and Pancaldo led him to a small office in back of the cubicles. It had a wooden desk covered with small pieces of paper and some old metal lockers leaning against a wall. Rene LeDoux’s locker had a padlock on it, and Rackman opened it with one of his picks. Pancaldo left with Detective Dancy, and Rackman removed Rene LeDoux’s clothes and purse. He sat at the desk and emptied the contents of the purse onto it. The only identification was a Quebec driver’s license that listed her occupation as an entertainer. There were fifty-five dollars in her wallet, and her clothes were chintzy. She couldn’t have been a very successful hooker.