Tower looked at Reardon. Reardon shrugged.
“Let’s get the dead man’s identification first, sir,” he said. “Then we’ll know better.” He looked over at the man from the sound lab. “How about those voice-graphs?”
The lab man opened the folder he had been carrying.
“One was from Florida, we think; the natives there follow a slightly different curve than Mississippi or Georgia—more like North Carolina. We think the second was from somewhere in New England, Massachusetts, most probably, but western, not eastern. Not Bostonian. That one’s just a guess,” he said, looking up a moment. “All we have from him are four sample words. He said ‘downstairs’ twice and ‘last time.’ But the curves come closest to the area we’ve picked. The third one is the one we’re the surest about; it is the classic curve for the native of this part of the state of California. Though they’re getting rarer.” He smiled.
“That’s only three,” Reardon said.
“The fourth was the driver,” the lab man pointed out.
“Oh,” Reardon said, and felt foolish.
Captain Tower smiled and passed up any obvious comments. He looked at the sound-lab man. “You’ve tied them into definite positions in the robbery?”
“Yes, sir, of course. The man with the submachine gun, the one who apparently ran the show, is the one from around here. The man at the door—the one who almost certainly is the dead man—was the one who originally came from Florida. The one who escorted the guard downstairs is the one we think probably came from western Mass. It could also be western Connecticut or eastern upstate New York, but in that general area.”
Reardon asked, “But you don’t feel the graphs are good enough for court?”
The lab man hesitated. “If you catch the men and have their voices recorded, we can certainly try to show comparison graphs to the jury, but unless you can get them to record with masks on—and I doubt you’d get permission to do that—the graphs wouldn’t be sufficiently identical to help, I don’t think. A good defense counsel would tear the identification to pieces.” He shrugged. “We can try, of course.”
“I see,” Chief Schley said, and turned to Captain Davidson from Robbery. “Dave?”
“Well,” Davidson said slowly, “Lieutenant Reardon here contacted the FBI locally for a check on similar m.o.’s, and my department has been following up on it. So far, no luck. They fed the facts from the replay tape into their computers and got nowhere.”
“Maybe it was their first job,” someone suggested.
“Maybe, but they looked awfully organized for the first job. Anyway, the FBI is now disregarding some of the facts and checking out on all four-man jobs, with different disguises, different weapons, and they’ll try to tie some of them to names. But for my money, the best bet to come along so far is that dead man you have downstairs.”
“Right,” Tower said.
“There’s also the matter of that quarter of a million dollars in small, unmarked money,” Reardon said slowly. “They might get careless in spreading it around. I’ll get onto that.”
“All right,” Schley said. There was a moment’s silence, then the chief came to his feet. “Let’s get back to work. Captain, once you know your needs, let me know. I’ll want daily reports, and you’d better be prepared for further meetings with the commissioners if things don’t move.”
“What about reporters?” Davidson asked.
Everyone looked at Reardon. He shook his head. “There weren’t any at the dock when we fished the car out.”
“Well,” Schley said, “it won’t be a secret forever, but let’s try to keep it quiet at least for the time being. Or at least until we’re further along on the identification. If the other three are from around here, let’s not scare them off any quicker than we have to.” He thought a moment. “In fact, if there are reporters, refer them to me.” His tone indicated he would give them either a lesson in civic responsibility or a well-prepared dish of gobbledygook.
“Yes, sir.”
It was a chorus. The men stared at each other blankly a moment and then began to file silently from the auditorium.
CHAPTER 9
Friday—10:30 A.M.
Bluish-white light reflected antiseptically from the tiled walls and the row of polished stainless steel tables laid out in parallel. Dondero, an avid reader of science fiction, once said the dissecting room of the morgue looked like a Vesuvian flophouse. Many people had commented on the large number of tables; the morgue seemed prepared for disasters of major proportions. At the moment, however, the Unidentified Male Caucasian—Dead On Arrival was the only customer.
Doctor Lascowski, the pathologist assigned to the task, smiled as he approached the removal of the second of Wheaton’s bullets from the dead body. The first had required the breaking and retraction of ribs, always a lot of work, but the second had chipped the clavicle, slowing down, touched the aorta in passing, and conveniently lodged itself on the exterior wall of the stomach, where it poked out like an incipient boil waiting to be lanced.
“Vesticular,” the doctor said, pleased. The uniformed policeman acting as his secretary noted it in his book.
The photographer, requested from Sergeant Wilkins by Reardon and sent to photograph the dead man, was seated, against all rules, on the adjoining steel dissecting-table, waiting impatiently to get on with the job. As the doctor bent over the second bullet, he spoke for the fourth or fifth time.
“Look, Doc, all I want is one or two lousy mug shots. I’m not interested in the hemstitching.”
“One minute more and you can have all of him.”
“One minute more and Sergeant Wilkins will have my head,” the photographer said, irritated. “You’ve been giving me that ‘one minute’ stuff for half an hour. Can’t you step out of the way a second—?”
There was a sharp snip of the scalpel and the bullet cooperatively popped into the waiting basin with a small clink. The doctor stepped back, smiling; the secretary closed his book.
“All yours,” the doctor said.
The photographer grunted, brought up his camera without getting off the table, and took a shot. He climbed down and moved closer, raising the camera for a full-face view, and snapped again. He walked to the other side of the table for a final shot, winding the film forward as he did so. He took his last picture and started for the door.
“Just remember to explain to Sergeant Wilkins why it took all day to get the pictures,” he said sourly and left the room. The doctor picked up the bullets, carefully labeled them for the Ballistics Laboratory, handed them to the secretary for delivery, and then patiently began to sew the dead body up again. It would never do to bury an unsightly corpse.
While the photographer at long last was bringing his film upstairs for development, Dondero was waiting, also impatiently, for the Identification Section to check out the fingerprints he had brought up from the morgue a half-hour earlier. The rubber surgical gloves had still been on his hands when the corpse was delivered, and the fingerprints were, if Dondero had to say it himself, things of beauty. Their clarity, however, had not been of any great assistance so far; the local files had revealed no record of the dead man. The state files in Sacramento were now being checked by telex. The sergeant in charge of the section finally appeared at the end of an aisle of filing cabinets; he worked his way down the narrow passage and confronted Dondero at the small counter.
“No record,” he said.
“Get them off to Washington then,” Dondero said, and looked up at the clock on the wall. “How long for that?”
“If he’s on file as a criminal, a couple of hours. If not—” The sergeant shrugged. “Maybe a day. If he was ever printed,” he added.
Dondero looked at him sourly. “Who hasn’t been printed?”
“About half the country, believe it or not,” the sergeant informed him.
“How many bank robbers?” Dondero asked sarcastically.
“Probably all those who were never caught,”
the sergeant said, and walked toward the telephone to send the print classification to Communications for forwarding to Washington. Dondero left the office and climbed stairs to relay the news of the ID delay to the lieutenant.
Reardon was seated at his desk going down the small list of people with previous arrest records who had still managed employment at the shipyard. The majority had been up for minor violations, but there were several crimes with violence, and Reardon was studying them. When Dondero walked in, he looked up expectantly. Dondero shook his head.
“He’s not local or state,” he said, “which figures, anyway, from that accent. The classification’s on its way to Washington now. It’ll probably take a while. If he was ever printed, that is.”
“He’ll have been printed,” Reardon said confidently. “If not for a crime, then definitely for the army. At his age he could scarcely miss it.”
“Unless he was 4-F or had an occupational deferment, or was a perpetual student or any one of a dozen other things,” Dondero said gloomily. “Hell, he could even have been in the merchant marine. I was never printed until I joined the force.”
“Don’t cheer me up,” Reardon said. “If he was never printed—” He shrugged.
“I know.”
They both knew. The clothing was cheap, but somebody had still taken the trouble to remove all labels. The shoes were a standard brand, size 9C, with no store name on them. The body had no scars, and the small amount of dental work would have made identification by the man’s own dentist difficult, even if they had any idea where to look for him, which they didn’t.
“Still,” Reardon said, looking for comfort, “we’ve still got his face. By the way, what in hell is holding up those pictures?” He frowned and shook his head. “Well, keep after Identification on those fingerprints,” he began, and then paused. Clarence Milligan, the manager of the branch bank, was standing in the doorway. Reardon looked at his watch. “You’re early.”
“Early?” Milligan looked puzzled.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until this afternoon.”
“Is that Mr. Milligan?” Jennings got into the act. “I forgot to tell you, Lieutenant, I wasn’t able to reach him. I left a message for him to call, but I meant for him to call by phone.…”
“I didn’t get any message,” Milligan said, mystified. “I was downtown at the head office on business, and when I came out I heard the boy screaming an extra, so I bought one—”
“Extra?”
“The newspapers,” Milligan said, and took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over. There was a photograph of a police officer on the front page, under a stop-press scarehead. It read: ROBBERY GETAWAY CAR AND DEAD BANDIT FOUND. Reardon was scarcely surprised to see the picture was a studio portrait of Officer Gunther, probably taken upon graduation from the academy. He glanced at the article:
… black car containing the body of one of the suspected bank robbers who robbed the Farmers & Mercantile branch bank in Bay View of a quarter of a million dollars, killing Police Officer Thomas Wheaton in the process, was dredged from the bay in Burlingame early this morning. The empty suitcase allegedly used to transport the stolen money was also recovered.
According to Officer Otto Gunther, who called the story in exclusively to the Star, he and another officer were passing the road leading to the Windsor Dock at about four o’clock this morning when Officer Gunther noticed the light normally illuminating the pier was not functioning. Fearing something might have happened to the watchman, Officer Gunther …
Reardon didn’t bother to read further. He could picture the rest of the story. Maybe he’d take a trip down to Burlingame, after all. If nobody down there taught Gunther the obligations of a police officer—or to at least keep his lies reasonable—he might decide to do it himself. He tossed the paper aside with a gesture of contempt and looked up to find Milligan staring at him, a worried look on his face.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Lieutenant? What’s the matter?”
“It has its points of truth,” Reardon said dryly. “We did dredge up a car, and it did have a suitcase in it, plus a dead body. We just preferred to keep it out of the papers awhile, is all. Of course I would have informed you, because I want you to formally identify the suitcase. That’s why the sergeant was calling you.” He reached under his desk and brought out the case. A tag had been appended to the handle. “Is this the suitcase that was taken from the bank?”
“Sure,” Milligan said, surprised at the question. “Of course that’s it. It’s got the name of the bank there, like I said.”
“Then would you please initial this tag. Better look inside first, and make sure it’s really the same one. You’d be surprised what some defense attorneys can do with a faulty identification.”
“Sure,” Milligan said, and opened the case. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, stronger inside, and pointed. “See that tear? Caught my cuff link one day. It’s the same one, all right.” He closed it, signed the tag, and then sat down beside the desk as Reardon slipped the case under his desk again. “What do you think, Lieutenant? Have you any idea where the others are? Or the money?”
“Not yet,” Reardon said. “We haven’t identified the dead man yet. But we will. His prints are on the way to Washington right now. Which reminds me—” He picked up the phone and dialed an inside number. There was a brief wait before Sergeant Wilkins of the Technical Squad was on the line.
“Yes?”
“Frank? This is Jim Reardon. Where in hell are those pictures?”
“They’re in the drier right now, Lieutenant. That damn doctor downstairs wouldn’t let our man get close enough to get a good shot until he was all done fishing out the bullets—”
“Well, get me a print of each in a rush, will you?”
“Two minutes,” Wilkins said, and hung up.
Reardon put the phone down. “I’m going to show you pictures of the dead man. They’re not gory; his face was unharmed and these are just pictures of his face. I want you to try and remember if you’ve ever seen him before, in the bank or anywhere else. The shipyard, maybe.”
“I’ve never been at the shipyard,” Milligan said, “but, sure.” He hesitated a moment. “Lieutenant, what do you figure the chances are of getting the money back?”
“To be honest,” Reardon said evenly, “I’m more interested in getting the other three men who were involved in killing a cop.”
Milligan’s face reddened. “I didn’t mean—”
Reardon took pity on him. “I know. Anyway, basically the money is your problem and getting the men who shot Tom Wheaton is ours.” He shrugged. “I honestly can’t say. The quicker we get the three, the better the chances of the money being found intact. The longer it takes, the less chance. It’s probably already split, which makes it that much harder, and the chances are the men are all spread out by now.” He glared at the newspaper he had tossed away. “That story there doesn’t help. Anyway, we’re doing our best.”
“I know that—” Milligan began, and then paused as Reardon’s attention was diverted by a uniformed policeman. The officer handed Reardon an envelope, and left. Reardon slid three eight-by-ten prints from the brown envelope; they were still warm from the drier. He placed them on the desk. “This is the man we fished out of the bay this morning. Ever see him before?”
The face was unmarked; it actually looked alive. The expression showed none of the horror one might have expected at painful death; instead it seemed to demonstrate only polite disinterest. The hair was tousled and showed dampness, but the face itself had dried. Other than one corner of the print which showed the start of the incision for the recovery of the first bullet, the picture might have been a candid shot taken against a plain steel background. Milligan studied each pose carefully; when he looked up he shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said simply. “He—well, he looks like a million other people. He could have been in the bank, or not. I don’t remember him.”
Reardon
nodded. He had studied the photographs together with the young bank manager and it was, unfortunately, his own opinion. It was a standard, everyday face, neither ugly nor especially handsome, of a man in his middle to late twenties, with one nose, one mouth, two eyes, two ears, and a full head of hair.
Milligan cut into the lieutenant’s thoughts. “If I could keep these, maybe one of the tellers, or the guard, might recognize him. They see the customers a lot more than I do, anyway.”
“You can take them,” Reardon said, and put them back in the envelope, handing it over. “We’ll send you more copies, if you want, but the pictures will be in the newspapers, too.”
“Somebody’s bound to recognize him,” Milligan said confidently. “After all, he’ll be missed—” He seemed to realize he was intruding on police prerogatives and came to his feet. He shook Reardon’s hand in a firm, warm grip. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
Reardon nodded. Thanks for what? he thought sourly, and watched the young man leave the office. You were right, you know, he silently said to the departing Milligan. He’ll be missed and somebody’s bound to recognize him. In fact, eighty-eight thousand people will undoubtedly recognize him, each one equally convinced it is his or her missing son, brother, uncle, cousin, sister, aunt, or what have you. And we’ll go crazy.
Pray for those fingerprints, Reardon, he said to himself fervently, and went back to the lists from the shipyard of crimes with violence.
Friday—12:30 P.M.
Lieutenant Reardon, on his way to lunch alone—by design—pulled the Charger to the curb before a drugstore on the corner of Morris and Bryant, climbed out, and edged his way past the crowded display racks inside the store to reach the phone booths well hidden in one corner. He slid into one, dropped his dime, and dialed a familiar unlisted number. To his surprise it was answered almost immediately, an unprecedented thing. Even more surprising was the fact that the answering voice was alert, rather than drugged with sleep as usual.
Bank Job Page 10