Cassidy's Corner

by Hack, Henry

  “Richie screwed so many of his fellow dirtbags there are probably a dozen or so suspects for you, but I think I can save you some time and narrow the field to one, and it’s not me. I mean, I didn’t like the prick, but I would never do that to him.”

  “Hey, Hoppy, I was only kidding. What do you have for me?”

  “Revenge is your motive, Pop – pure revenge.”

  Harry related the story of the previous evening. He did not mention choking Richie out, but provided all the other details. He concluded with, “And I signed off at about midnight.”

  “How big was this kid would you say?”

  “About five-six, slight build, maybe 120 pounds.”

  “Do you think somebody that size could have done that to Richie alone?”

  “Maybe he came back with friends.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. Crime scene found a lot of footprints around Richie’s car. Looks like at least three sets. Hoppy, do you think you can provide a good enough description of this guy to the sketch artist so we might get a composite out in the neighborhood?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I got a pretty good look at his face.”

  “And those seven guys in the bar? Know any of them?”

  “Not by name. But I’m sure I’ve seen a couple around the beat.”

  “When are you back to work?”

  “I’m on my swing. I’m due back in to start a set of eight to fours on Wednesday.”

  “I’d like to get going on that composite quick. Can you stop in on Monday or Tuesday if I can get the artist out here to the stationhouse? I’ll see if I can get the okay from your commanding officer for the overtime hours and for some follow up with me.”

  “Fine with me. I could use the dough as you know.”

  “Yeah, you got some nut each month with the alimony, child support and rent, don’t you?”

  “You bet. Three weeks pay out of every four right off the top. Doesn’t leave much dough left to vacation in the Islands, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. By the way, how are the kids and your ex doing out there in the wilds of Pennsylvania?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it now, it’s Christmas.”

  “Hey, I understand, and it’s getting late. Are you going over to your sister’s for Christmas dinner as usual?”

  “No. Ellen and Bob moved to North Carolina near our mom a month ago. Mom’s getting on in years and Ellen didn’t want her to be alone anymore.”

  “Had I known you would be alone you could’ve joined me and Vera. But that’s not going to happen either with this damned case right now. In fact, I better call her and give her the bad news. Who knows when I’ll get home.”

  “What’s left to do? The crime scene has to be complete. You probably have no witnesses to talk to and you’re not likely to find any tonight, and Richie’s cooling off in the morgue. I’m sure they’re not going to post him until the morning, right? So go on home and relax with Vera over a wonderful dinner.”

  “Post Richie? Why would they do that?”

  “Very funny. I guess our suspect already did the autopsy with the belly slice.”

  “No, Hoppy, it’s just that Richie isn’t quite dead yet.”

  “W-h-a-t?” Harry said inhaling deeply. “What do you mean he’s not dead? You’re in Homicide. What are you doing here if he’s not dead?”

  “C’mon, you know we roll on these kinds, too – the real bad ones that look like they’re going to die very soon?”

  “Right, Pop. I guess I was just shocked to find out Richie was still alive. I mean, this whole conversation, I just assumed he was dead all along.”

  “He may as well be the last I heard from the hospital a few hours ago. They just wheeled him into surgery and didn’t sound too hopeful they could save him. Said the only reason he made it this far is because it was so cold where he was in the car, all his insides kind of shutdown and his vital organs weren’t harmed.”

  “When will you know something?”

  “That’s why I can’t go home to Vera. I’m heading over there now with Nick. He just passed me a note that Richie was in the recovery room. When he wakes up I want to be there to record his first words.”

  “Good luck. I can’t wait to hear what he says.”

  “I’ll let you know when I see you at the stationhouse. I’ll give you a call to let you know when to meet the artist. Have to run now. Adios, old friend.”

  ●

  When Harry put down the phone, he fell back on the bed and let out a great rush of breath. The awful tension of maintaining a calm conversation with Pop Hunter, followed by the revelation Richie was still alive, had drained his emotions and a pounding headache had set in. He closed his eyes for a few moments to relax, to quiet his breathing, to allow things to sort themselves out in his racing brain. The headache would not quit. He went to the bathroom, took the bottle of Advil out of the medicine cabinet and swallowed three tablets with a large glass of cold water. He returned to the bedroom and lay down again on his back, eyes closed, hands folded across his stomach, breathing rhythmically, trying not to think about anything.

  The pills kicked in within a half hour, and ten minutes after that, the pounding dwindled to a slight ache. He rose from the bed and went into the kitchen. His notes and memo book were where he had left them. He had to organize his thoughts and plan for the next few days. Okay, Richie’s not dead. I am not responsible for his death. Please, God, let him recover completely. Don’t let him die. What the hell got into me last night? How could I have allowed this to happen? He got down on his knees for the first time in years and recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary and the Act of Contrition, and again pleaded with God to not let him become a murderer.

  A chilling thought flashed through his mind. If Richie did indeed wake up, what would he say? Would he say, “It was Cassidy done this to me. He coulda stopped those guys, but he didn’t…”

  He looked at his notes again and then tried to recall his conversation with Pop. What had he told him that might come back at him later? He stated aloud: “I told him exactly what happened up to the time I signed off duty. No problem there. No lies, and only one omission, that being I choked Richie during the confrontation. What else did I tell him? I told him about the kid probably coming back for revenge. We discussed that maybe more than one was needed to do Richie in. And the seven guys in the bar – the witnesses. I know I told Pop I didn’t recognize any of them, but that I’ve seen a couple around the beat occasionally. No problem there. Only problem will be if, I should say when, Pop Hunter finds these guys. And the way I reacted when I realized Richie was alive. Did Pop detect the relief in my voice? Did I raise any red flags? And the footprints…”

  Harry ran to the closet next to the apartment’s front door and pulled out his black rubber boots. The soles were lightly pebble grained and worn almost smooth in several spots. Crime Scene could never get a match on these from any casts made in the snow. And even if they did, that’s his beat. He belonged there. He even parked his car back there once in awhile. His footprints should be there. But then he remembered he had not put on his boots when he went back to the bar in civvies. He ran back to the bedroom and inspected the black leather oxfords he had worn. No bloodstains were visible on the heels and soles, but to be on the safe side, he brushed them vigorously over the kitchen sink with soap and hot water. He then inspected his leather coat and the slacks he had worn when he went back to the Nest, but they also appeared free of stains.

  Harry had been so focused he hadn’t had a cigarette in a long time. He lit one now and relaxed, dragging in and releasing the smoke, waiting for the nicotine to make its way from his lungs to his bloodstream to his brain. He finished the cigarette and picked up his pen. He completed his memo book entries based on his notes and signed the bottom of the page. No changing it now.

  He was suddenly bone tired. The previous night’s events, the messages, the calls, the strain of keeping his story straight, the scotch, and the constant
change in adrenaline levels that coursed through his system had finally taken its toll. The ringers on the phones were still off. He again shoved the answering machine under the bed. Although he was desperate for Pop to call him with news of Richie, he had to sleep; he needed a good mental and physical rest. Whatever Richie said when he woke up, he would deal with in the sunlight of the morning. Thank God this awful Christmas Day would soon be over. Christmas Day. His girls. He better call them back right now.

  He dialed and Peggy’s machine picked up and informed him she was not there and to please leave a message. He deliberately did not acknowledge her existence as he said, “Hi, Patty and Lizzy. Merry Christmas. I got your message, but I was working when you called. I’m glad you liked your presents. Santa Claus picked them up and got them to you in a wink.” He hesitated a moment. Did they still believe in Santa Claus? And where were they, anyway? Probably over their grandparent’s house. “Hey, you two sweethearts,” he said into the machine, “I hope you had a very good Christmas and got everything you asked Santa for. Good-bye for now. I love you both very much.”

  He wondered when he would see them again and fell asleep imagining their smiling faces and their outstretched arms reaching for him.

  ●

  Harry awoke with a start to the bright sun streaming through the window.

  He checked the clock and realized he had slept over thirteen hours. He reached under the bed and pulled out the answering machine. No messages. Relief spread over his body as he headed for the shower. He hoped that old saying, “no news is good news” would hold true now.

  He checked the answering machine after his shower and shave. Still no messages. He put the coffee on and turned the ringers on both phones to the on position. He devoured three scrambled eggs, four sausages, three slices of toast and orange juice and just poured his second cup of coffee when the phone rang. He almost dropped the cup and picked up the receiver on the third ring.

  “Hey, Hoppy. Pop Hunter here.”

  “Hey, Pop. What’s new?”

  Harry did not want to appear anxious, because as badly as he wanted to know about Richie, he dreaded the answer.

  “I’ll tell you what’s new – nothing. Richie survived the surgery. All his bodily functions seem to be working, but he never woke up. He’s in a coma.”

  “How come he went into a coma?”

  “The doctors think the loss of blood, the shock of his stomach being cut open and the bullets in his knees made his body shut down in an effort to preserve his life.”

  “Any idea if he’ll come out of it?”

  “They just don’t know. They said he could come out tomorrow, or in a year, or never, but they think it won’t be too soon. His body took a hell of a beating and it’s got to heal itself before the brain turns back on. That’s the best they can figure.”

  “Poor guy, but at least he’s alive, so I guess there’s hope.”

  “Guess so. Time will tell.”

  “Did you get that sketch artist set up yet?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I called. He figures he can be at the stationhouse about eleven. That okay with you?”

  “Sure, if it’s all right with the old man.”

  “Yeah, Captain Snyder gave the okay for the overtime with no problem. There’s no doubt he likes you. Says you’re one of his best cops.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Then it’s set. I’ll meet you at the stationhouse. The sketch should take about an hour, hour and a half. Then we’ll grab some lunch and spend some time together to get your statement.

  “Sounds fine, Pop. See you then.”

  “And Hoppy, can I ask a favor? Try to be nice to Nick Faliani.”

  “That greasy prima donna.”

  “I know, I know. But listen, you were kind of rough on him yesterday and, if Richie recovers, my part in this will be over. Nick will have the case as an attempted murder, or assault first degree, and you’ll have to deal with him. I got him out pounding the pavement on your beat looking for those witnesses. Once you get past the flashy clothes and his attitude he is a willing worker. Can you please cut him a break?”

  “But, Pop…”

  “For me, Hoppy?”

  Harry sighed, “Okay, Pop. Only for you.”

  ●

  Harry parked in the back of the stationhouse and walked around to the front of the building. The snow piled up on the sides of the driveway was dirty with soot, but the cold, crisp December air and cloudless blue sky raised his spirits. He inhaled deeply as he walked up the steps and past the twin green globes that guarded the entrance to the front door.

  “Morning, Lou, Sarge,” he said.

  They both looked up from behind the ancient raised desk and the white-haired, smiling desk officer, Lieutenant Jim Gordon said, “And a good morning to you. What brings you here in civvies on your day off?”

  “Some overtime. The dicks upstairs badly need my help to solve their cases.”

  “That’s right,” Sergeant Adamo said. “The captain’s clerk called down a few minutes ago to authorize it.”

  “Okay, Joe,” Gordon said, “sign Officer Cassidy officially on duty, assisting the Nine-Five squad, authority Captain Snyder.”

  “Will do. Harry, I’ll call upstairs to let Hunter and Faliani know you’re on your way up to see them.”

  “Thanks, Sarge. See you later.”

  Harry walked past the desk and up the flight of worn concrete stairs. The frosted glass door at one end of the hallway proclaimed “Detective Squad” in faded black letters. The door was half open and the smell of stale cigarettes and old coffee floated out to him. The commotion of several voices, clacking keyboards and ringing telephones blended into a noisy din.

  Harry found Pop in an interview room and they shook hands and hugged each other as old friends do, but also briefly, as men do.

  “Have a seat,” Pop said. “I just heard from the artist. He’s on his way over from Boro HQ and should be here shortly. Hey, are you sure you’re okay with Nick on this?”

  “Sure. I’ll work with him for your sake.”

  “Good, because we’re all gonna have lunch together when you’re done with the sketch.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I talked to Nick a half hour ago and he may have found a witness. I want to have him show a copy of the sketch to the guy. We’ll grab a bite to eat first and you can show us the scene in daylight and take us through what happened step-by-step. I was going to wait until you were back on Wednesday, but I want to speed things up a little bit.”

  That’s what made Pop such a good detective. Move fast. There may be a witness ready to talk. The perp’s scent is beginning to waft his way. Go, go, go. Harry wouldn’t want Detective Second Grade Charles Hunter to come after him, stalking him, hunting him down. Jesus, Pop even had the perfect name for what he was – a hunter, a professional tracker of bad guys. And wouldn’t Harry’s scent appear soon? What would Pop do then? And what the hell would he do then? The phone rang and Pop picked it up. He said, “That was the desk sergeant downstairs. The artist is on the way up. I’ll hang with you as you do the sketch.”

  ●

  The sketch artist, Detective John Marski, was a seventeen year veteran of the Department in the Investigative Support Bureau. He was a certified latent fingerprint examiner and also one of four sketch artists assigned to that bureau. Marski was a no-nonsense professional and had the basic description from Harry in a minute. He then went to work with the Ident-a-Kit and his own sketch pad using soft graphite pencils.

  “Can you be more certain of his ethnic nationality, Officer?”

  “That’s the tough part. He could’ve been Hispanic, or Middle- Eastern, and his face was puffy from the beating.”

  Marski continued to move pieces around the kit as Harry nodded in assent or shook his head no. Gradually the face began to emerge and Harry became surer and surer that what began to appear started to hit the mark.

  “What about the eyes? Were they ov
al, round, slanted…?”

  “Not slanted, more oval or almond shaped, but almost round.”

  Marski put several sets of eyes on the face in succession until Harry said, “That’s almost it. Just move that hair up a little, give him a little more forehead.”

  Marski complied and Harry said, “Stop. That’s him. Here’s your suspect, Pop. The avenging angel.”

  “What about skin coloration?”

  “That’s a tough one. Definitely not Caucasian, but not olive enough to be Italian or Hispanic.”

  “John, can you mix up some colors?” Pop asked.

  “Sure, let me see what I can do.”

  After a few attempts, Harry settled on one mixture, but was not as sure as he was with the eyes. “That’s pretty close,” he said, “but remember, he was under those yellow sodium lights, so it may not be right on.”

  “Okay,” Marski said. “This is the best we’re going to get. Let me finish the sketch so you can grab a few quick copies. I’ll get back to my unit and run off the finished product from the Ident-a-Kit and have them for you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks a lot for your help as usual,” Pop said. “And let me have your unofficial opinion what we have here.”

  “Your guy is definitely, unofficially of course, a Middle-Eastern type, probably Saudi, Afghani or Pakistani. Can’t rule out Iraqi either.”

  After Marski packed up and left Harry said, “What was that unofficial stuff all about?”

  “We can’t put ethnic background on the flyers anymore. All we can say is white, or tan, or olive, or brown complexion. Can’t say possibly Hispanic, or African, or Middle-Eastern anymore.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says some court in the State, or maybe Federal. I’m not sure.”

  “Unbelievable. What the hell will the courts ban next?”

  “Who knows, but whatever they do, it will no doubt also be un-believable.”

  ●

  It was just past 12:30 when they were done. Pop ran off a couple copies of the sketch and they drove toward Harry’s beat in Pop’s unmarked squad car.

  “Where’s a decent place to eat? It’s your territory.”

  “You mean without reservations?”