Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “All right, all right!” Clancy said irritably. He hated hysterics. “Nobody figures you ran your train up on the platform after him.” His eyes studied the shocked face of the man before him and his voice softened. “It was an accident. Take it easy. You’ll be all right.”

  He walked to the edge of the platform and peered downwards. The jumper, a man, had been struck while still in the air; it had prevented him from falling beneath the wheels of the swiftly braked train, but it had not saved him. The impetus of those rushing tons of steel had flung him violently against one of the gaunt columns supporting the street above; the force of the brutal impact had nearly torn the body in two. It now lay wedged between the third rail and the rigid column, a widening pool of dark blood cushioning the crushed head; the monster train had ground to a screaming halt less than a yard from the ripped body. Clancy shut his eyes a moment, blotting out the fearful sight, swallowed convulsively, and then opened his eyes again. He turned back to the group on the platform, and walked over to Jennings.

  “Where’s the other trainman? The one that opens the doors?”

  Jennings jerked a thumb. “He’s back there with the others. He didn’t see anything. He’s stationed halfway back in the train, and anyway he says he was talking to a pal of his when it happened.”

  Clancy nodded and turned back to the motorman. The man was swaying on his feet, his face white, his eyes wide, remembering. Clancy studied him. “Are you going to be able to handle this train once this business is cleared up?”

  The motorman wet his lips, started to speak, and then looked down at his feet instead. He seemed to feel his inability to bring himself back under control was something to be ashamed of. Clancy nodded understandingly and spoke to Jennings.

  “Better get him home and see that his doctor is called. And see that the IRT send another man down here to take his place. In a hurry.” He turned away and walked over to the policeman standing between the curious passengers and the gruesome sight below on the tracks. “Did anyone else see this thing happen?”

  “I did, I did!” It was a thin, pimply youngster in his teens, bursting with the importance of his news. He shifted the stack of books under his arm to a more comfortable position. “I was standing right up front in the first car, right next to the trainman’s booth, catching the breeze. I seen the whole thing.”

  Clancy stared at him. “Was anyone near him when he jumped?”

  “Naw. He …”

  “Are you sure?” Clancy’s stern tone was meant to impress the boy with the seriousness of accurate reporting. “Was there any chance that he might have been pushed?”

  “Naw.” The boy discounted this repetition with a derisive tone born more of nervousness than disagreement. He shook his head violently to demonstrate the degree of his knowledge. “He jumped. He was all alone, standing like he was waiting for the train to stop for him to hop on. And then, all of a sudden, just before we come up to him—wham! Right in my face!”

  Clancy disregarded the dramatics. “Did you notice anyone else on the platform at the time he jumped?”

  The boy hesitated, torn between the obvious heroics of embellishment and the less colorful, but more accurate facts. He looked at Clancy and decided he’d be a hero another day; today he would tell the man what he had seen and no more.

  “I think they was a guy over by the washroom door reading a newspaper,” he said doubtfully. “I think. I ain’t sure.” He paused, trying to repicture the scene of their arrival in the station, and then shook his head. “I ain’t sure. It happened awful fast.”

  Clancy looked at him with a frown. “Do you mean there was only one person on the platform when the train came in?”

  The boy shifted the books under his arm again, and shook his head. “Naw. I mean near him. They was people over in the middle, and maybe some on the other end, but he was down at the other end—I mean, at the front end, like. Down where he was, I think only the guy reading the newspaper was there.” He lifted a grubby finger, wanting to make his position as an honest witness crystal clear. “I think. I ain’t sure.”

  “All right, son. Stick around.” Clancy turned to the group of curious passengers owlishly watching both him and the young boy. He raised his voice slightly, his eyes moving from one frozen face to another. “Were any of you people on the platform when this train came in?” There was silence; he tried again. “Did any of you see any of this?”

  There was a hesitant cough, and one man thrust himself forward slightly.

  “I didn’t see it,” he said, “but I’ve been waiting for someone in authority to show up we could speak to. When that motorman stopped the train, a lot of us were thrown forward, and I hit my arm on one of those vertical poles. I wouldn’t be surprised if I sustained an injury. Who do I see about that? It’s certainly the responsibility of the city …”

  “See your lawyer,” Clancy said coldly, and turned to the patrolman standing quietly to one side. He was a tall young man, still looking as if he had not as yet become fully accustomed to the new uniform. “What about the guy in the change-booth?”

  The young patrolman shook his head. “Wrong angle, Lieutenant. The corner of the platform cut him off. He didn’t see a thing; we already asked him. All he heard was the train when the motorman hit the brake—it scraped along …” His voice trailed off.

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Clancy said. He raised his voice again slightly. “All right, folks; we’ll need some of your names and addresses. Please don’t leave until we get them.” He forestalled any objection by turning back to the young uniformed figure at his side. “Do you have any make on the jumper yet?”

  “We ain’t touched him, Lieutenant.”

  “So let’s touch him,” Clancy said, almost testily. He hated suicides more than almost any other part of his work. He steered the young patrolman to the edge of the platform at the front of the train and looked at his badge. “All right, 1973. Down there and toss up his papers.”

  “Hadn’t we ought to wait for the medics, Lieutenant? We called them, you know …”

  “Wait for them for what?” Clancy asked sourly. “Let’s get on with it. Let’s get down there, son.”

  The young patrolman looked over the edge and gulped. “How about the third rail, Lieutenant?”

  “So don’t be a butterfingers.” Clancy knew very well that the current had been cut between Seventy-second and Ninety-sixth on the uptown side as soon as the accident had been reported, but he did not believe in coddling newcomers to the force. The young cop hesitated a moment and then lowered himself gingerly over the edge, eyeing the third rail suspiciously, as if it might suddenly slip out of position and lunge at him. He averted his eyes from the smashed skull, reached out and snaked a wallet from the inside pocket of the mangled jacket, turned, and scrambled hastily back to the platform. He handed the wallet to Clancy and then wiped his hands on his sides.

  “Medal of Honor,” Clancy muttered ambiguously. He looked around for some decent light and then walked forward to the first car of the train, leaning toward one of the windows, opening the wallet. A thin folder had been placed between the two sides of the wallet, free; it dropped to the platform as Clancy opened the billfold. For a moment Clancy was afraid it had slipped between the train and the platform, and then he saw it had lodged against his foot. He bent down and retrieved it, opening it to stare at the typed document and the attached photograph. A surprised frown crossed his face.

  “Well, well, well!” he said softly. “What do you know?”

  The young patrolman had followed him to the side of the car. “You know him, Lieutenant?”

  Clancy disregarded the question. He studied the papers a few more moments, his forehead puckered in thought, and then tucked the document in his pocket, turning his attention to the wallet. He riffled through the bills, slipped some cards from a small pocket, studied them and returned them, and then stuffed the wallet into his topcoat pocket. There was a commotion at the steps and two white-jacketed young
sters came bounding down the stairs, dragging a stretcher behind them. They disregarded the turnstiles and walked to one side, pulling the exit door open. Clancy watched them, remembering his fifteen cents and the token, bitter at his own sheer stupidity.

  The youngsters came up. “Where is he?” one asked cheerfully.

  “Where you’d expect him to be,” Clancy said, still angry with himself at the thought of the token. He jerked a thumb towards the tracks. “Down there. And try to make it quick. There must be a line-up of trains piled up all the way to the Battery.”

  “Roger,” said the other. He flipped a large hand up in a travesty of a salute. “Your word is our command. We’ll have him out of here and comfortable in a jiffy.”

  “Thank you.” Clancy watched them as they paused at the edge of the platform, and then jumped down, dragging their stretcher behind them. If he expected them to cringe at the sight that faced them, he was disappointed. Other than an admiring whistle from one, they got to work silently. Clancy shrugged and turned to the young patrolman still waiting patiently at his side.

  “Get the names and addresses of any in that mob that make sense,” he said. “The kid, and the other trainman. And see to it that the information gets to the precinct soon, in case we need it.” He paused as another thought came to him. “That guy screaming about his busted arm—do me a favor and forget him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And stick around here until the relief motorman comes,” Clancy said. “Which I hope is soon. Stay here and see that the train gets going. There must be a jam back of this thing that will give us grief someplace else, like traffic, or fainting women …” He cut off the thought.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clancy hesitated a moment, weighing his next words. “And you handled yourself all right on this,” he said quietly. “Suicides are rough, especially at the beginning.”

  He turned from the embarrassed flush of gratitude that spread across the young face, pushed his way through the exit gate, trying not to remember the manner or the expense of his entrance, and trotted up the steps.

  2

  At eleven o’clock that lovely day, a little boy, age eight, playing hookey from school on a day too warm and pleasant to be incarcerated in a classroom, fell into the East River on the Brooklyn side, and was swept away in the strong, oily currents. His frightened classmates, after staring at the spot where he went in, silently drifted away, each taking his share of guilt with him. A winchman loading a freighter on a nearby dock saw the incident, but he was too far away to attempt rescue. He did, however, notify the police at once, and they had the river dragged for many hours without success.

  The water of the East River, into which the little body had disappeared, was ten degrees warmer than normal for the date, according to the Coast Guard Bureau of Statistics. It was just another example of the fine weather that fall.

  Monday–11:25 A.M.

  Clancy stopped in his office long enough to divest himself of his topcoat and hat, distributing them as usual. He retrieved the wallet and the documents of the subway jumper and, still holding them in his hand, went back to the corridor and up the worn steps to Captain Wise’s office on the second floor. He swung the door open without knocking; Captain Wise, his telephone receiver almost buried in his huge hand, tilted his massive head in the general direction of a chair and returned to his conversation.

  “Yes, sir, Inspector,” he was saying into the instrument. “Yes, sir. I know. I’ll have to check the duty roster and let you know. The only thing is, we’re busier than hell, and strapped to our ears.…” He looked up at Clancy, shrugged helplessly but expressively, and returned his attention to the telephone. “Yes, sir. I understand. I know.” His big hand dwarfed the pencil with which he was doodling; he scribbled something and nodded at the receiver. “I realize how serious it is, sir. I understand. I’ll call you back.”

  He hung up and reached for his pipe. “That UN thing again,” he said with a scowl. “Threats and more threats. Rumors and more rumors. Why in the hell didn’t they put the damned thing on a desert island out in the middle of the ocean? Or in the Kremlin and let them worry about it?” He sucked on his empty pipe a moment and then replaced it in the ash tray; Captain Wise was in the process of stopping smoking. He withdrew his hand from the pipe as if he were releasing an old friend who would probably not understand his lack of attention. His eyes came up, studying Clancy. “Well? How did it go over at Eighty-sixth Street?”

  Clancy leaned forward impressively, placed the wallet and documents on the desk, and slid them over in front of his superior. “If these papers belong to the guy who jumped in front of that subway train—and that’s being checked out downtown right now—then,” he said quietly, “I have the pleasure of informing you that Mister Caper Connelly is no longer among us.”

  Captain Wise’s hand froze momentarily in the act of reaching; his bushy gray eyebrows went up. For a moment he stared at Clancy and then he picked up the document on top and opened it, studying it carefully.

  “Caper Connelly, huh? That’s the hackie we’ve had so much trouble with over the years, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the one,” Clancy said, nodding. He leaned back, his eyes steady on his superior’s face. “We’ve had him in here a dozen times, on suspicion of everything from pushing dope to using his cab as a ten-minute bordello, to using it to deliver hi-jacked booze to a couple of unlicensed bars. Unfortunately, we were never able to stick him with time, but the fact is he was a bad boy.”

  “I remember him.” Captain Wise frowned. “How does a guy like that keep getting his license renewed?”

  Clancy shrugged. “Like I said, we never could get a conviction. And the license board can’t knock a man down on suspicion only. After all, those medallions on the hood are worth upwards of twenty-seven grand …”

  “Yeah.” Captain Wise picked up the wallet but made no attempt to open it. “Anything of interest in this?”

  “About five hundred bucks,” Clancy said. “Which is about four hundred and ninety more than you’d find in mine. Plus cards for membership in a couple of places I also can’t afford.” His eyes went from the wallet to the captain’s face. “You might also note that it isn’t made of cheap plastic. Real alligator. Mark Cross, and expensive.”

  “Yeah.” Captain Wise pushed the documents and wallet back at Clancy, started to reach for his pipe again, and changed his mind. “So what do you think?”

  “Sam, I think it stinks.” Clancy frowned and slid the two items back into his pocket. He leaned back again. “It takes some pretty strong reasons for a man to jump off a subway platform in front of a train, and Caper Connelly is one guy I just can’t picture doing it. One thing is sure, he certainly didn’t do it because his conscience was bothering him, because that guy didn’t have a conscience.” He fell silent and sighed. “Still, he did do it.… Well, it’s just one more thing we have to follow; one more thing to take up our time.” He reached into his shirt pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it. Captain Wise’s eyes followed every move hungrily. “What did you want to see me about before?”

  Captain Wise dragged his eyes from the aromatic cigarette and looked away, a bit embarrassed. “Actually, Clancy, it wasn’t anything of any great importance.”

  “Come on, Sam,” Clancy said patiently. He blew cigarette smoke across the desk as if by accident. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. You used to wipe my nose for me when I was a shrimp in school; I know you like a book. And I know when you’ve got something on your mind. Come on; what’s bothering you?”

  “Me? Nothing.” The captain’s expression was the purest of innocence. He reached for his pipe once again, but it was only for something to do with his hands. Captain Wise was a man of will-power. He pulled his hand back as if he had inadvertently found himself reaching for a bomb with a lit fuse. “I was only going to ask you about your date last night, is all.…”

  “My date?” Clancy stared at the other for several momen
ts and then shook his head in mock disgust. “Sam, Sam! When are you going to give up, and stop trying to marry me off?”

  “Mary Kelly’s a nice girl, Clancy. And a good policewoman. And she comes from a nice Irish family.…”

  “As if you care.” Clancy grinned and blew some more smoke across the desk. “Sam, you don’t know Mary Kelly’s family from Gamal Nasser’s family. And I know it, and you know I know it. As a matter of fact, I don’t know them myself. They live out in Kansas or Iowa or someplace, and for all I know they’ve never even been to New York.”

  “A girl like that has to come from a good family,” Captain Wise argued stubbornly. He forced himself to disregard the tempting aroma of the smoke drifting across the desk at him. “Anyway, what difference does it make, her family? Were our families so much we should criticize? Your father was the only Irish pants-presser in the shop my father was a cutter. Anyway, you don’t marry a family, you marry a girl …”

  “Hold it,” Clancy said firmly. “Now I’m getting married, am I? I have one dinner with a woman and before dessert you’ve got me coming down the aisle.”

  “And just what’s wrong with that?” Captain Wise demanded, as if insulted. “What’s wrong?” For a moment he tried to seethe without staring at Clancy’s cigarette, and then gave it up. He shook his head, this time sincerely. “Look, Clancy—what kind of a life is it you lead? Work, work, work! And then go home to a crummy apartment …”

  “Crummy?”

  “You know what I mean. Is this the life for a grown man your age? My Sarah says …”

  “Whoa!” Clancy held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “You’ll pardon me, Sam, but your Sarah would rather be a successful matchmaker than a good cook, and that’s saying something. Why don’t you and Sarah let me run my own love life?”