New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  “What kind of more?”

  Dave shrugged. “Just more. I don’t know. Be the best. You were in the Green Berets.”

  “Special Forces,” Kane said. “Girl Scouts wear green berets.” Kane backed off. “Yeah. Green Berets. Why don’t you go for something that could teach you a skill you can use in the real world?”

  “I think I want to go Special Forces eventually,” Riley said. “Like you.”

  Kane had some memories of seeing Riley as a very young child, but not after West Point, since Liam and Dave Riley’s mother had split up. “You don’t want to be like me.”

  Dave spread his hands, indicating the place. “I don’t want to be this. I know those guys across the street are watching. That’s every day. I aint all Irish, I aint all Puerto Rican and I don’t want to be part of any gang. That’s a dead end. My dad thinks I should be on the job like him or maybe the cops like his brothers, but I want to get out of the city. I want to be part of something better. Are you telling me Special Forces isn’t better?”

  “The Army’s fucked up,” Kane said. “The war did that.”

  “This isn’t fucked up here?”

  Kane didn’t answer the obvious.

  “Even Special Forces is messed up?” Riley asked.

  “There’s good people in it,” Kane admitted. “But it’s not the place to be to have a career and make rank. The rest of the army thinks SF are bastards with no home.” Kane thought about it. “We aren’t at war. And you can go places. Do things. A lot of interesting training. But you have to do an Infantry tour first. Enlist eleven-bravo. Then pass the Q-Course.”

  “Eleven-bravo. I’ll do that.”

  Kane stared into his young cousin’s eyes, seeing the determination that must have been in his and Ted’s at the same age. The desire to do something, anything, but what was laid out in front of them. “You seem pretty certain.”

  Dave shoved his hands in his pockets, shifting his eyes. “I’m real sorry about what happened here. With your kid. When my dad told me, he cried. I’d never seen him cry. Before or after, even when my mom left.”

  Kane felt the surge in his chest, the pressure behind his own eyes. He took a deep breath to settle down. “Your dad’s a good man.”

  “I guess. My mom doesn’t like me talking to him. But I call him at the firehouse. Sometimes. From pay phones.”

  Kane tried to think of an alternative to the Army for young Riley. “Special Forces has good people,” he finally said.

  Riley nodded. “I want to be with the best.”

  Kane pulled out his notepad, wrote the number for the diner on a page. Thumbed through, found another number and name. He tore it out and handed it to his young cousin. “The top number is where you can leave a message for me with a guy named Thao. The other is a buddy living outside Bragg. When you get to the Q-Course, he should still be there. He’s retired. Call him. He’s was in Group, Special Forces, a long time and can help out.”

  “Thank you. Thanks a lot.” Dave stood there awkwardly for a moment. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”

  “Nah,” Kane said. “I was getting ready to leave.”

  Dave Riley walked away with a bounce in his step and Kane watched until he was out of sight on Gun Hill Road.

  Kane started the bike and rolled the throttle. He headed for the post office on the corner of Gun Hill and Arnow but abruptly changed direction. He pulled in front of the wide, concrete stairs that ascended to the front doors of Holy Rosary Church. Killed the engine.

  Kane walked up the steps. Four sets of wood doors. He pulled on a handle. Then another. They were all locked. Once upon a time, Kane had had the set of keys for all the locks in the church and the combination for the safe in the sacristy. Kane stepped back and looked at the tall steeple.

  “Have I offended thee?” he whispered.

  He remounted the motorcycle. Drove to the post office and paused at the box on the corner. Retrieved the two envelopes from the breast pocket of his shirt. Pulled the handle back and tossed them in. One held a check, the other cash.

  Same as every Saturday for the past year. When he was overseas, he’d consolidated and sent a monthly check and cash, given the delivery was less certain.

  Not a single check was cashed. Nevertheless, Kane deducted them from his original checking account he’d had since he was a plebe at West Point as if they had been.

  Because not a single one had ever been sent back to the return address, which was the Marcelle Law Firm. The cash didn’t have a return address so he assumed it was used by the receiver.

  He headed for the Hutchinson River Parkway to take the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge to the Island.

  FLUSHING MEADOWS, QUEENS

  The 109 Precinct was housed in a quiet, two story brick building not far from Shea Stadium where the Mets played. Their fans were still mutinying after the trade of Tom Seaver to the Cincinnati Reds a month ago, as if the event evaporated the last tendrils of the feel-good 1969 World Champion ‘Miracle Mets’. Attendance at Shea was breaking records in terms of empty seats. For many the loss of Seaver was indicative of the loss of hope in the City. Pete Hamill had written in the Daily News the previous month that ‘this is not simply a sports story, it is a New York story . . . A city struggling for survival can’t lose a single hero.’

  Kane considered that a bit over the top, because the problems in New York went much deeper than baseball.

  The Yankees had also made Shea their home field for the last couple of years while their hallowed Stadium underwent renovation in Kane’s home borough. But now the pinstripe boys were back in the Bronx. Fans were thronging to the Mecca of baseball and cheered for the team while pitted against each other in the Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson feud, which was more apropos of the state of the city. Trailing the Red Sox for the pennant, the almost brawl at Fenway Park at the end of June between Jackson and Martin had made national news. The Yankees even made winning a clusterfuck and fought each other harder than their Boston rivals.

  Kane parked the Kawasaki a block away from the 109, chaining it to a light pole. He walked in the front door of the precinct and was confronted by a young uniform.

  “You a reporter?”

  “I’m here to see Detective Riley,” Kane said. “He asked me to come.”

  The cop stepped aside and pointed. “Upstairs.”

  Kane opened the door at the top of the stairs. A large room buzzed with activity. Phones were ringing nonstop, blurring into a continuous noise. There were over forty men in the room. Most worked at desks, others stood along the walls, which were covered with maps and crime scene photos. Kane didn’t see Nathan so he studied the closest corkboard to the right, which didn’t have anyone attending to it.

  Crime scene photos surrounded a map of the City. A red thread was thumbtacked between each cluster of photos to a spot. There were five threads. The photos were of what used to be women. Young women as best Kane could tell through their mutilation. Two white, two black and one brown. It was hard to discern much about them because they’d been beheaded and the heads placed on their stomachs. The faces were unrecognizable; seared red meat and blackened bone, all the skin and hair burned off. The naked bodies were staked down, arms and legs akimbo.

  A bold Irish brogue cut across the room, which quieted it for the moment. “Now who do you be, laddie?” The speaker was tall, dressed in a smooth tan suit. Steel rimmed glasses framed blue eyes. His gray hair was neatly combed. He strode across the room toward Kane. Behind him, Nathan stood up from a desk where he’d had his back to the door.

  “I’m Will Kane.”

  “You’re not one of my detectives,” the Irishman said. He looked Kane up and down. “You’re not one of my plainclothes and you’re not in uniform. Are you a Fed?”

  Nathan interceded. “He’s my nephew, Inspector.” He nodded at Kane. “William, meet Inspector McDonald. He runs the Task Force. Sir, this is the Vietnam veteran I talked to you about.”

  “On with it then,” he
brusquely said to Nathan and walked away.

  “Heavy on the brogue,” Kane said to his uncle once McDonald was out of earshot and the noise level in the room amped back to frustrated frenzy.

  “He was born in the old country,” Nathan said. “County Kerry. His folks didn’t come over until he was in his teens. He’s been on the force since 1940 so he’s got a lot of experience. A bit bookish and a stickler for details, but we’re going to need details to crack this. Scuttlebutt is that he was the third choice to lead the task force. First two said no.”

  “So Uncle Conner isn’t stupid.”

  Nathan gave a wry smile. “No, he’s not stupid.”

  Kane pointed at the map and photos he’d been studying. “This isn’t Son of Sam.”

  “No,” Nathan said. He indicated the four clusters. “These are current unsolved multiple killings. We’re checking for connections, just in case.”

  “’Multiple killings’?”

  “Same perp, more than one vic, over a period of time. Same MO in each cluster.”

  Kane was surprised. “We have that many multiple killers in the City?”

  “We average five homicides a day, William,” Nathan said. “Most involve drugs, robbery, alcohol, or are husbands, boyfriends, or gang related. But some, yeah, they’re multiples.”

  “Why?” Kane pointed at the images. “Why would someone do this?”

  It was Nathan’s turn to be surprised. “’Why’? Who the fuck knows? That’s the thing with Son of Sam. Why is he shooting people? Why does he target girls with long brown hair? If we knew why these people acted the way they did, we could catch them. That’s what we’re trying to figure out with Son of Sam.”

  Kane indicated the wall of multiples. “Why aren’t these headlines?”

  “Three of these four multiples kill prostitutes. Most are runaways.” Nathan pointed at the decapitated cluster and the next two. “We’ve got three different patterns in multiple hooker killings with five, three and four vics respectively. At least that’s the number of bodies that have been found and connected.” He pointed at the last grouping. “The fourth multiple is someone killing homeless using a nail gun. Can you believe that? Five vics from that nutjob now that we know of. A nail gun. Honestly? No one gives a damn about these. You know how many hookers and homeless are in New York? Welcome to Fear City. We’re on track for a record year in homicides.” He tapped Kane on the arm. “Come here.”

  The Fear City comment was in reference to the campaign waged by the police union, the Police Benevolent Association (PBA), a few years ago after the mayor laid off some police. The newly unemployed and pissed off former cops picketed Kennedy Airport, Grand Central Terminal and the Port Authority handing out brochures with those words along with an image of the grim reaper on the cover and suggestions on how to survive the city. Those included not riding the subway and never go out at night. In essence, don’t come.

  Nathan led Kane to the far wall, which was crowded with photos. In the center was a map of the entire city. More crime scenes and red strings pointed to the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens.

  “This is our guy,” Nathan said. “Seven attacks so far. Six dead. Based on his last letter, we’re worried he’s ramping up for the anniversary of the first attack, on the 29th.” He tapped the picture of a young girl with a line stretching to a spot in Bayside, Queens. “She’s the one from your old neighborhood and school. Hit in the head, shoulder and neck.”

  “Surprised she survived.”

  “He fired through the windshield so the bullet fragmented.”

  Kane scanned the photos, the timeline and the map. “He’s all over the city, except Manhattan.”

  “He doesn’t take the ferry or the Verrazano out to Staten Island either,” Nathan noted.

  “Who does?” Kane noted the picture of a gun. “Revolver, so you don’t get any casings.”

  “Which means no fingerprints,” Nathan said. He indicated the cacophony of phones. “We’re receiving over a thousand calls a day. Most are wack jobs, but you never know. We’re getting more detectives, plainclothes and patrol in to help. Dressing officers as women and putting decoys in unmarked cars at popular make out spots and disco club parking lots.”

  “You said the city has five homicides a day. This asshole has killed five over a year. Why is everyone going nuts over him?”

  “His attacks are random but not random,” Nathan said. “And he’s made it very public in the letters taunting us. The media’s run with it and once you get something in people’s heads it bounces around in there until there’s a resolution. When people get afraid, they focus on it.”

  Kane turned to his uncle. “You got hundreds of years of homicide experience in this room. I don’t see how I can help.”

  Nathan faced the board. “It goes back to what I was talking to you about. We know the nuts and bolts of how to work a case. We’ve had the shrinks in here, giving us their mumbo jumbo. But even they don’t really know the why. They have theories. We’re lacking what’s between their theories and our nuts and bolts.”

  “How can I help there?”

  “You’ve killed people, haven’t you, William?”

  Kane went perfectly still. There was a rushing noise in his ears, the sounds of the phones ringing and multiple conversations faded, and he stopped breathing for several long moments.

  “Listen,” Nathan hurriedly said. “We don’t have to do this. It’s just that we’re desperate and the anniversary is coming and Son of Sam specifically mentioned the date in his letter to Jimmy Breslin.”

  Kane took a breath. Nodded. “Yeah. I’ve killed people. But that was war, not something I conjured up on my own.”

  “Even the double-agent?”

  “You think I pulled the trigger?” Kane stared hard at his uncle. “He got our people killed. Our friends. He was the enemy. Worse than the enemy. He betrayed us.”

  “But what does it feel like?” Nathan asked.

  Some of the nearby detectives pretended to work, but listened. Across the room, Inspector McDonald watched.

  “It doesn’t feel like anything. When you make contact, you do what you’re trained. You fight for your friends, your teammates. You’ve got combat vets on the force. Ask them.” He pointed at the map and photos. “This? This isn’t war. This is crazy. Loco. He’s not fighting for anyone else. He’s fucked up. Okay? Do you think I’m crazy? Is that why you’re asking me?”

  Nathan put his hands up. “Take it easy, William.

  Kane walked out. Nathan caught up to him on the stairs.

  Kane paused. “You better tighten security. If I could get in this easy, a reporter will be taking pictures before you know it.”

  “I’ll talk to the desk sergeant,” Nathan promised. “Come on. Let’s get some hot dogs.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You don’t even have to use condiments or get sauerkraut,” Nathan tried.

  “Bringing up my dad being an asshole doesn’t help.”

  “I talked to my sister. You didn’t stop by home yesterday after you left the club.”

  “Fuck you.” Kane walked out of the 109th.

  GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

  Pope was perched on the stairs outside the brownstone, reading the NY Post in the fading light from the sun over New Jersey. He held the paper as if it were hemlock yet he had to taste. A small thermos rested on the step next to him. His straw hat was canted to shade his face.

  “Waiting for me?” Kane asked. He’d parked the Kawasaki in the derelict garage next to the newly headlighted Jeep, a few blocks away.

  “Enjoying the warmth and the sunlight. Even after all these years, I do not pine for the English weather.”

  “A bit hot isn’t it, though?”

  “A tad.” Pope folded the paper, grabbed the thermos and stood. “Care to join me for a spot of tea?”

  “I’d appreciate some water.”

  Kane followed his landlord into the main floor.

  Pope dashed s
ome ‘tea’ into his cup from the thermos. He eyeballed the interior, retrieved the bottle and topped off, screwed the lid and slid it inside his leather satchel. Kane went to the sink and got some tepid water.

  “You look none-too-happy,” Pope observed as he settled into his chair. “Did your meeting with your uncle not go well?”

  Kane took a chair facing the back door. “Not particularly.”

  “Ah. I’m afraid I’ll be adding to your woes then.”

  “How so?” Kane asked.

  “One of those chaps you wanted me to investigate. Quinn.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “In a former life he was New Zealand military. Special Air Service.”

  “Fuck me,” Kane muttered.

  “Of course you would know of the SAS and their capabilities.”

  “How did Quinn go from SAS to the Cappucci family?”

  “An intriguing story that was not easy to acquire and has missing pieces,” Pope said. “I called transatlantic and contacted an old mate in London who has ties to dark places. He’s former SIS, more popularly known as MI-6. It was rather late his time, but he came through for me with as much as he was willing or could. I ran up quite a long-distance bill.”

  Kane reached for his money clip, but Pope waved that off. “I tellied from a line at the Post. That piker Murdoch will pay for the call. And understand that nothing I tell you will be attested to by myself or my source. Her Majesty is rather touchy regarding the actions of the SAS.”

  “Understood, but you said New Zealand SAS, not UK.”

  “Her Majesty is possessive of her colonials,” Pope said. “If Quinn had been British SAS, I doubt my source would have whispered a word, but there is a little bit of daylight, or in this case, night light, between the two islands.”

  “There were New Zealand SAS in Vietnam,” Kane said.

  “Indeed,” Pope said. “As well as Australian troopers.”

  “I didn’t work with any directly,” Kane said, “but heard good things.”

  “Quinn was seconded to the British SAS,” Pope said, “which is why my source knew of him. Not in Vietnam though. He got caught up in the dust-up in Oman in July of ’72. Are you aware of the Dhofar Rebellion?”