Material Witness

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Next was Mendez, the other Mendez, who proved a true wacko and was remanded to the state institution for the criminally insane at Matteawan. Other cases came and went, until second call came around. Still no Phelps.

  The judge looked meaningfully at his watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and he had labored for the People for over an hour. If he closed this out now, he could get a quick bite in town and be home in Teaneck in time for eighteen holes that afternoon, before the autumn light faded.

  “No Phelps,” said the judge. “I’m going to put this case over for the next hearings.”

  Schick said, “Ah …” The young man knew that something was wrong, that he should do something, but he didn’t know what it was or what he should do. Everyone around the table was looking at him, with expressions ranging from the bored to the hostile.

  What was wrong was this: it is the heart of every legal proceeding, even one as sloppy and rushed as this one, to produce the body of the defendant: not a name on paper, or a record, written or electronic, but the actual living, breathing, sweating lump of flesh attached to the name, and to show the same to the actual living beings representing the prosecution, the defense and the court itself.

  This is the reason, and the only reason, for the elaborate and tedious charade of the criminal courts, that these bodies, however cynical, bored, corrupt or vicious the spirits animating them had become, might by this simultaneous conjunction be touched by the holy miracle of justice. It happens.

  So what Peter Schick should have done was to look in the eye of the representative of Bellevue and speak some version of that ancient and portentous phrase, habeas corpus: “You have the body.” He had every right and a positive duty to view the body of Martin Phelps at that moment.

  But the judge said, peremptorily, “Mr. Schick, did you have any applications at this time?”

  Schick flushed. He did not shout habeas corpus at Bellevue. He did not shout at all but instead in a low voice said, “No, sir,” and the sacred moment passed away.

  Bellevue did not in fact have the body of Martin Phelps. That body had walked free out of the prison ward that morning because of a clerical error. Another M. Phelps (case dismissed) was still safely, and illegally, under lock and key.

  The body of Martin Phelps was at that moment alighting from a 23rd Street cross-town bus at Eighth Avenue, while his mind was occupied in receiving directions from his masters, the Metaloids of the planet Trigon. The Metaloids had enlisted him years ago in their campaign to rid the earth of the agents of the Punox protectorate. They spoke directly into his head, sometimes painfully, but always with truth and complete authority.

  They provided him with money, and a place to stay, and his special tools. They had released him from the clutches of the evil Punox that very morning. They pointed out the agents for him to kill.

  He was following one now, a particularly vicious agent disguised as a pretty young woman. They were clever, the Punox. And tough. He had to stab them many times, sometimes hundreds of times. And he had to eat various parts of their bodies, so that they could not reconstitute themselves, and keep other parts to show to the Metaloids. He did not particularly like this, but the Metaloids were adamant. It was a hard job, but somebody had to do it. He followed discreetly behind the woman, listening to the Metaloid signals, securely under guidance.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first sign that Karp’s life was about to unravel came during a brief conversation he had with Peter Schick two days after the competency hearing. Bloom had asked Karp when, and if, Martin Phelps would be brought to trial, as he did every other day, and, spotting Schick scurrying down a hallway, Karp grabbed him and asked him the same thing.

  “Nothing yet,” Schick responded. “The next hearing is next Tuesday. It should come up then.”

  “He wasn’t called?”

  “Yeah, he was called. He just didn’t show.” Schick looked at his watch and hefted his stack of legal folders. “Jesus, I’m late for court.…”

  He started to move away, but Karp stretched out a long arm and held him hard by the shoulder.

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean, he didn’t show?”

  Schick glanced meaningfully at the hand holding him and then looked at Karp impatiently. “Just what I said. They called his name twice and he wasn’t there. So the judge put it over.”

  “And what did you do?”

  Schick shrugged, unsure as to where this was leading. “Do? What could I do? The guy wasn’t there. Hell, Butch, witnesses miss court all the time—”

  Karp exploded. “Christ! Peter! He’s not a witness. He’s the fucking prisoner! He has to show up. Where the fuck was he? On the can? Jogging in the park?”

  Schick essayed a weak smile. “C’mon, Butch. He’s locked up. He’s in the prison ward.”

  “How do you know? Did you see him?”

  “No, but—”

  Karp cut him off with a curt gesture. “I’ve told you before, it’s your responsibility to make sure every defendant in a competency hearing is where he’s supposed to be. Don’t ever let me catch you leaving any judicial procedure again without seeing a breathing warm body in the chair! Now call Bellevue and make sure he’s still there!”

  Karp stalked away, leaving Schick standing there, pale and gaping. Karp was furious, but more at himself than at Schick.

  In fact, he knew he had just lied. In fact, he had not made this point to Schick at all in reference to the competency hearing. The kid could not be blamed for not doing something Karp had never told him to do. Karp felt something, some primary competence, the sense of being more or less on top of things, slipping away. Too many balls in the air, too many balls by far.

  His mood did not improve when, on arriving back at his office, Connie Trask handed him a stack of yellow phone call slips as thick as a pastrami sandwich. It had been that way since the article had come out, the price of fame. Crime was much on the minds of the city’s rich, and a genuine crime fighter was a desirable decoration for a party or salon, much as bootleggers, coke dealers, and black revolutionaries had been in their season.

  Karp, ever the good public servant, returned all these calls and turned down all the invitations, pleading the press of work. Those refusals, however, merely added the pique of elusiveness and mystery to people whose invitations were otherwise eagerly sought, and simply made Karp more of a challenge. The calls continued.

  People called him at home too. That was new. Cranks, people wanting favors for incarcerated friends, people with good ideas about what to do to criminals, felons with threats: the public exerting its ownership. Karp bought an answering machine, an object he had thought he would never own, but still felt harassed and invaded.

  He was just coming to his last few calls, talking to other people’s answering machines, of course, when Schick stuck his head in and said, “It’s OK, they got Phelps. He’s still locked up.”

  Karp smiled and said, “Lucky you. Go, and sin no more.”

  Schick vanished and Karp picked up the next slip. Good. Not a hostess. Pagano.

  Tom Pagano was the head of Legal Aid for the New York County courts, for years Karp’s nominal adversary. Karp had a better relationship with Pagano than he did with many of his nominal allies, however. He had a lot of respect for a man whose job was even more thankless than his own, and who had been copping thugs to a lesser when Karp was still in high school. They ordinarily spoke to each other at least half a dozen times a week.

  “What’s up, Tom?”

  Pagano’s deep voice boomed over the wire: “How about a suit for unlawful imprisonment?”

  “We never do that. You must want a different department.”

  Pagano laughed. “No, I gotcha this time. Guy’s case was dismissed three days ago and they won’t let him out of Bellevue. My kid’s been pounding on Bellevue, and of course they won’t do shit unless they hear it from you.”

  “Who’s the A.D.A.?” Karp asked, reaching for a pencil.

  “Well,
as a matter of fact, it’s you,” said Pagano, chuckling.

  “Me?” Karp tried to think who he had in Bellevue and came up blank. “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Phelps, Martin C,” said Pagano.

  “Phelps? What? What’re you talking about? Phelps is the multiple killer with voices from Mars in the head.”

  “Different Phelps, Butch. Our guy was up for assault one, only the vic decided not to press and we got a dismissal.”

  The first thrill of icy fear started to twist Karp’s belly.

  “Uh, Tom,” he said, trying to control his voice, “why won’t they release him? At Bellevue.”

  “Because they claim he’s already been released, day before yesterday. But it was a different Phelps. We need you guys to go down there and clear up the confusion.”

  Karp felt like his face was covered in steamed towels. “OK, Tom, I’ll get right on it. I’ll see to it personally.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after a siren-screaming ride uptown, Karp was in the prison ward at Bellevue staring at a porky, middle-aged and irate citizen who, whatever his other defects, was not the Chelsea Ripper. The Bellevue staff was embarrassed and frightened, making excuses and telling cover-up lies as fast as they could think them up. Karp was not interested in that.

  He signed the papers that would enable the wrong Phelps to rejoin his loved ones, and wandered out, down green, smelly hallways, through swinging doors and out onto First Avenue, where Doug Brenner, his driver, was waiting.

  Brenner saw Karp’s face and asked in alarm, “What’s wrong? Somebody die?”

  “Yeah. Me. We seem to have misplaced the Chelsea Ripper.” He gestured at the police radio. “Look, patch me in to Zone Three homicide. I want to talk to Sonny Dunbar.”

  Dunbar was a talented homicide detective with whom Karp had worked a number of cases in the past. He had also led the team that had tracked down the real Martin Phelps.

  “You what!” said Dunbar. “How the fuck—”

  “Never mind that. The point is to pick him up before the goddamn Martians do.”

  There was a pause on the line. Dunbar said, “Well. About that … it’s the Metaloids, not the Martians. And I think they already did.”

  Karp closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Tell me.”

  “Last night in the Penn Station houses. A girl cut to pieces. The M.O. was pure Phelps. He turned her into dog meat and took the tongue and a kidney along. I thought it was a copycat at first, but now …”

  “Sure,” said Karp dully. “OK, I’ll write up the warrants. Just find him.”

  He put down the radiophone. “Where to?” Brenner asked after a minute or so of dead silence.

  “Centre Street,” said Karp. “Use the siren.”

  Karp went back to his office, got the warrant processed and made some necessary calls. Then he had Peter Schick sent for and told him what had happened in blunt, merciless phrases.

  “I’m sorry,” said Schick, his voice cracking. He had gone so pale that the little shaving cuts and pimples on his face stood out like stigmata.

  “Bad luck,” said Karp, turning gentle. “It could happen to anyone. OK, here’s what’s going down. I’ve made arrangements with Jim Vincetti for you to move over to the appeals bureau. It’s nice quiet paperwork and you’ll have a chance to get yourself together out of the shit that’s going to come down about this. Keep your mouth shut, and if there’s any official investigation of this, which I very much doubt, just tell the whole truth and nothing but. They’ll have their fall guy and the press will be satisfied.”

  Schick cleared his throat heavily. “What fall guy?”

  “Me,” said Karp.

  Karp waited for a half hour after Schick left and then the call from Dunbar came through. Martin Phelps had been discovered in his mother’s apartment in Peter Cooper. He had been in the little kitchen, slicing a human kidney up with onions and green peppers, the fat simmering in a pan. When the cops arrived, he had obeyed the final order of his masters and teleported himself to the planet Trigon by way of the living room window and the pavement nine stories below. The press had been informed.

  Karp left and rode the elevator up to the D.A.’s office on the twelfth floor. Bloom was meeting with some civic leaders when Karp barged in and whispered a few words in his ear. The meeting ended more abruptly than Bloom’s meetings usually did. When they were alone, Karp explained in outline what had happened, leaving out nothing but Schick’s name.

  The first thing Bloom did after hearing Karp’s story was to call Kevin McHugh, his p.r. man. While they waited for him to arrive, Bloom paced nervously back and forth, glancing at the door as if he expected the arrival of irate hordes of citizens.

  “The main thing is to control this situation from the get-go,” Bloom said. “Keep our stories straight. This is on Bellevue, right? They can’t blame us.”

  “The original mistake was clerical, but they can blame us. Like I said, there was a competency hearing on the day he walked out. We, I, didn’t insist on having him in the room.”

  “Then the judge … or Legal Aid. He’s their client.”

  “True, but it’s our responsibility legally,” said Karp.

  While Bloom was pondering this unpleasant news, Kevin McHugh walked into the room, excited. “What’s going on? I’m getting calls from the press about Phelps. He escaped and killed somebody? We got ABC and CBS here already.”

  Karp said, “I was just explaining the situation to the district attorney.” McHugh took notes and asked intelligent questions while Karp gave a brief summary of what he had told Bloom, concluding, “So there’s really nothing to do but tell the story. We screwed up.”

  McHugh and Bloom exchanged one of those embarrassed smiles that men of affairs share when they have heard some astonishing naïveté. Neither of them was a truthful man, but that only meant that McHugh was a good public relations officer and Bloom was a bad district attorney. McHugh caught on first. He asked softly:

  “‘We’ screwed up? Who was that exactly?”

  Karp had been waiting for this. “It was me. I was responsible.” He spoke calmly. He was calm, to his surprise. It was like being in a high school play, or a morning dream.

  As he delivered his line, he looked over at Bloom and watched the words strike home. But the combination of fear and naked glee playing on the D.A.’s features was so repellent that he had to look away.

  “Well, in that case, um, I think our duty is clear,” Bloom said. “Of course, we can keep this between ourselves.” He smiled broadly. Karp merely nodded, knowing well what was going on. Some years ago, he had caught the D.A. conspiring, for political reasons, to destroy a case against a man who had murdered a policeman. Karp’s possession of this knowledge had, in Bloom’s mind, limited his options in dealing with Karp. Bloom now obviously believed that the books were balanced, that he had something equally damaging on Karp, and was now enjoying the contemplation of a long-deferred revenge.

  McHugh picked up a phone and began dictating a press release and a statement for the D.A. to his secretary. The burden of the statement was that Bellevue was culpable in releasing a homicidal maniac, and that the district attorney would do everything in his power to insure that it did not happen again. The statement was terse, strongly worded and clear, if entirely misleading. McHugh really was a good p.r. man.

  Karp sat in Bloom’s office as the typed scripts were borne in by frenzied aides and secretaries. When Bloom and McHugh trooped out to the press room, Karp followed, barely noticed.

  The press room was an undistinguished closet with chairs and a podium at the front, nearly filled now with a dozen reporters and five TV camera crews. When Bloom and McHugh entered, the place lit up like a nuclear test.

  McHugh said a few words about the press release and turned the podium over to his boss. Karp had to admit Bloom was good at this. He radiated sincerity and concern as he delivered his statement without a hitch. There were questions; Bloom fielded them with pat answers
. The TV had their five-second sound bites. The lights started to flick out and the murmur of departure rose in the room.

  Then Karp stepped forward to the podium and cleared his throat.

  “If I may, I’d like to clarify some of the district attorney’s remarks,” he said in a loud voice. Bloom and McHugh looked at him, the false smiles freezing on their faces. The lights flicked on again.

  “I am Roger Karp, chief of the Criminal Courts Bureau. I want you to understand that the responsibility for all prisoners in custody lies ultimately with the district attorney’s office. There was a mental health competency hearing for Martin Phelps on the morning of the day he walked out of Bellevue. He was not produced for the hearing.

  “At that point it was the duty of the district attorney’s office to insist on the physical presence of the prisoner. It failed to do so, and as a result, a young woman was brutally murdered. I personally accept responsibility for this mistake, and hereby announce my resignation as chief of the Criminal Courts Bureau.”

  Stunned silence. Then a bellow of questions. Karp ignored these and pushed through the mob, out into the corridor. He heard McHugh shouting for order as the door closed behind him.

  He went up the stairs, one flight to his own office, where, in ten minutes with Connie Trask (she weeping openly, but taking notes) he terminated his management of the bureau in a crisp set of dictated memos.

  He was taking leave, he said, as of that moment. He hadn’t had a real vacation in over six years, and he had accumulated over three hundred hours of paid leave. If Bloom didn’t like it, he could call and complain.

  Trask supplied a shopping bag, into which he threw the few strictly personal furnishings of his office. They filled barely half the bag: some framed diplomas and pictures, a baseball on a wooden stand, signed by the 1952 Yankees, a Lucite paperweight containing a bullet dug out of Karp’s body, some private letters. The remainder belonged to the People. Karp slunk away before anyone else could learn what had happened.