Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Clancy slit the stained bag up one side and removed a sodden cardboard container with a loose cover. He looked at the container dubiously and then wiggled the cover loose, dropping it into the waste-basket at his feet and wiping his fingers.

  “Martinez?”

  “The old man with the shoe-shine box. What’s his trouble?”

  Without the support of the cover, the container almost collapsed in Clancy’s hand. “You know him?”

  “Sure. He shines shoes in front of Haley’s Cigar Store over on Amsterdam. He’s okay—a good joe.”

  The coffee was barely warm and had a faintly oily taste. It also tasted more than a little of cardboard. Clancy shuddered, wrinkling his nose. “Know his grandson?”

  “Also. Unfortunately. What’s the beef?”

  Clancy shoved the coffee to one side as being patently impossible and returned his attention to Stanton. “The old man claims he’s missing sixteen dollars he had hidden in his shoe-shine box. In an old empty can of polish. And he wasn’t rolled or anything like that. And the box wasn’t out of his sight.” Stanton snorted; Clancy looked at him curiously. “What’s the matter? Don’t you believe it?”

  “Sure I believe it,” Stanton said in disgust. “If old man Martinez said it, of course I believe it. I never knew him to lie. But this is a mystery? Hell! His punk grandson took it when the old man was sacked in one night. Who else?”

  “The old man doesn’t think so.”

  Stanton looked at Clancy with deep pity. “The old man wouldn’t think so if he caught the kid with his grubby paws in the box. The old man wouldn’t think so if the kid told him so himself. The old man thinks the sun rises and sets on that punk grandson of his.” He sighed in disgust, shaking his head, and then brought his mind back to the business in hand. “Well, anyway, I’m on my way. Keller caught me before I went out—he managed to get something to eat, so I don’t have to bring him nothing. He’s waiting for me at the house. We’ll give it a real shakedown this time. Anything else, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah.” Clancy frowned a moment in thought and then glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s a bit late today, but tomorrow afternoon I want you to stop by the school when it lets out and bring in young Martinez.” He looked up at Stanton. “Do you know where he goes to school?”

  “He goes to Wilson High,” Stanton said in a stunned voice, “but my God! We’ve got a hundred important things on the fire, Lieutenant, and what with the UN and the guys out sick we’re short-handed as hell right now!”

  “So now we’ve got a hundred and one things on the fire,” Clancy said evenly. “Tomorrow. Bring him in. After school.”

  “But, Lieutenant! For sixteen lousy bucks …!”

  Kaproski had been listening quietly from one corner of the room. Clancy allowed his glance to flicker between the two men; he swiveled his chair, staring out of the darkening window at the shadows formed by the dirty tenements, and the dim outline of clothes waving above like ghostly birds tethered to the invisible line.

  “Where do you draw the line?” he asked quietly, as if he were really asking himself, as if he would really like to have an honest answer to his question. “And when do you draw it? When they graduate from stealing from grandparents and start on strangers? When they move up from petty pilfering to grand larceny? When they give up using rocks and fists and start on guns and knives? When they finally get around to killing somebody?”

  “But look, Lieutenant …”

  “If the National Bank over on Columbus was robbed of sixteen thousand dollars, or sixteen hundred dollars,” Clancy asked stonily, “would it make a case?”

  “Well, sure, of course, but …”

  “If Haley’s Cigar Store over on Amsterdam was knocked off for a hundred and sixty bucks, or a hundred and sixty cartons of cigarettes—would we be right to send a man around to check into it?”

  “Sure, but look, Lieutenant …”

  Clancy swung his chair around suddenly, savagely. His voice was bitter, biting; his eyes were gray chips of flint. “So I ask you—where do you draw the line?”

  Kaproski always felt nervous when people around him, people that he liked and respected, got too serious. He cleared his throat a bit self-consciously.

  “Look, Lieutenant,” he said helpfully, “we could raise the sixteen bucks for the old man just around the precinct house here. Most of the guys know old Martinez and like him; they’d all be willing to chip in.” He paused and then added, as if in explanation, “If the kid took it, it’s probably gone into the pool tables by now, anyways.”

  Clancy looked at him with mounting irritation. “This is a police station,” he said coldly. “If that kid swiped sixteen bucks or sixteen cents, I want to see him.” He turned back to Stanton; one finger came up for emphasis. “I said if he swiped it. Which means that when you pick him up, you do it quietly. With no fuss. None of the other kids at the school need to know anything about it.”

  “What I’m trying to get at,” Stanton said patiently, “the old man won’t prosecute anyways, so why bother?”

  “Look, Stanton,” Clancy said in a tone of utter finality. “That old recluse that got killed this morning over on the Drive—that Willie what’s-his-name—he won’t prosecute, either.” He picked up the container of cold coffee and dropped it into the waste-basket in a sudden burst of anger. “God damn it! I said I want to see that Martinez kid tomorrow afternoon, and I mean I want to see him!”

  Stanton still attempted one more evasion. “All right, Lieutenant, but there’s no school on Saturday. How’s about waiting …?” One look at Clancy’s face and he hastily swallowed the balance of the words. “Yes, sir. Tomorrow afternoon, Lieutenant.”

  “Anyway,” Clancy said tightly, “I’d like to see the kind of kid—face to face—that an old man like Martinez breaks his back for.”

  “Sure, Lieutenant.”

  “Sure, Lieutenant!” Clancy mimicked bitingly, and pushed himself abruptly to his feet, turning to Kaproski. “All right, Kap. Let’s take a look at that cab of yours.…”

  Monday–3:40 P.M.

  The two men walked side by side down the dingy corridor of the precinct, turned at the end, stepped down one step, and pushed through a swinging door that led to the precinct garage. There was the always-present odor of gasoline and oil in the almost-deserted space; a pair of feet were angled out from beneath a jacked-up patrol car that had the hood raised as well. The owner-Yellow taxi was angled in towards a cluttered workbench that ran alongside the far wall of the garage. Clancy walked over to it, his heels echoing on the bare concrete. He surveyed it a moment and then swung open the door at the driver’s side, sticking in his head. He withdrew it at once, turning to Kaproski with a frown.

  “It’s got a glass partition between the front and the back,” he said. “That’s not standard.”

  “Some of the boys have been having them added,” Kaproski said. “It’s bullet-proof glass. Ever since they been knocking off hackies lately.”

  “Oh.” Clancy stared at the sliding glass. “I’ve never seen one before.” He shrugged and moved his attention to the complicated dashboard, automatically comparing the battery of shining instruments with the ones that graced—or rather, didn’t grace—his own ancient Chevy. He shook his head. “They’re making these things more like jet airplanes every day. Next they’ll put kitchens in them. How did she run?”

  “Like a dream,” Kaproski said enthusiastically. He enclosed a circle of air between his thick forefinger and thumb. “Which, after all, she should. She’s brand new, practically.”

  Clancy nodded, studying the speedometer. “Not many miles on her, even for a new cab—if that’s the speedometer and not the altimeter. We can check her actual age with the agency, but I’d say it’s at least a few months old.” He frowned speculatively. “It seems to me that a cab that was worked normally for even a few months in this town should run up more miles than this one shows.”

  Kaproski looked at his superior a moment and then
nodded slowly in understanding. “I get what you’re driving at, Lieutenant. You don’t think that Caper Connelly ate off what he earned hacking this job.” He shrugged. “Well, we more or less knew that before …”

  “I don’t know what I mean myself,” Clancy said shortly. “Maybe he was just lazy. Or maybe he was subject to car-sickness. It just seems odd, that’s all.” He studied the other instruments a few minutes longer and started to swing the door shut; then he paused. “Anything in the glove compartment?”

  “Registration and a city map. And a book that lists all the restaurants and fancy night clubs. And a flashlight and a screwdriver. Oh, and some gook to clean the windshield. The usual junk.” Kaproski reached over to take the door handle from Clancy. “You want I should get it?”

  “Leave it for now,” Clancy said.

  He moved to the rear door and opened it, looking in at the new plastic upholstery of the interior. There was even a new smell to the car. His eyes took in the floor-mat and the clean deck back of the tufted seat. There was nothing unusual. He was about to close the door again when a sudden throught struck him. The dome lights hadn’t lit when he opened the door. He reached up inside the padded frame and found the light switch, flicking it up and down several times. He frowned.

  “Yeah,” Kaproski said, noticing the action. “I saw that, too. The inside lights don’t work. And somebody swiped the ash tray, too, it looks like—the one on the back of the front seat.” He leaned over, pointing. “The arm ash trays are here.”

  Clancy continued to flip the unresponsive light switch up and down. “Queer that the lights don’t work on a new cab …”

  “They don’t build them to last nowadays,” Kaproski said with profound disgust. “They build them to sell and after that to hell with you! Same thing with appliances. My mother went out and bought herself a new refrigerator a month ago, and already …”

  “Yeah,” Clancy said, and stepped back, swinging the heavy door shut behind him. He continued to stare at the empty interior of the car through the clear glass window, and then made up his mind. “Kap, take her downtown. I want the lab boys to go over her.”

  “For what, Lieutenant?”

  “For luck,” Clancy said shortly. He looked at his wristwatch. “And give me a ring when you’re ready to leave downtown, in case something comes up and I need you.”

  “Sure, Lieutenant,” Kaproski said equably. He climbed into the driver’s seat, then suddenly remembered he had no ignition key and climbed out again. He raised the hood, clipped two already prepared wires together, slammed the hood down again hastily, and hopped back inside in time to press down urgently on the accelerator and catch the weakly gasping motor. The engine caught and roared enthusiastically. Clancy backed away. Kaproski rolled down the window and leaned out.

  “How’s that for a hot motor, Lieutenant? Hey, is it all right if I pick up some fares on the way downtown?” He grinned. “Christmas is coming and every little bit helps …”

  Clancy grinned back and shook an admonitory finger; Kaproski raised a shoulder in supplication to the powers in whose hands the benefits of moonlighting rest, smiled, and backed up. He shifted gears expertly, swung the wheels, and drove out of the garage with a burst of power. Clancy stood staring at the empty garage doors a moment in deep thought, and then turned in the direction of his office. He noted, as he passed, that the feet sticking out from beneath the disabled patrol car had not seemed to move since he and Kaproski had first entered the garage.

  If I hang around much longer, he thought, I’m just apt to hear a snore, and not wanting to hear a snore, I’d better not hang around much longer. He pushed through the door that led back to the precinct corridor, his ears blissfully deaf.

  4

  At four o’clock that afternoon, a householder in the borough of Richmond decided to burn the stack of colorful crisp autumn leaves which he had laboriously assembled in the road in front of his house, before the growing cold wind could redistribute them. The fire caught beautifully; a billowing cloud of pungent white smoke rolled across the street, obscuring the vision of a laundry-truck driver—who, in any event, was traveling too fast for that speed zone. The driver attempted to slow down, to peer through the sudden wall of smoke, but by that time it was too late. He plowed into one parked car, caromed off, swerved blindly in panic, and crashed into a station wagon driven by a nervous mother bringing her youngest child home from nursery school. All three were injured, the mother seriously.

  The homeowner eventually received a summons for burning leaves in the street without a permit. Had he been found guilty, the fine would have been ten dollars, but fortunately he had a brother-in-law who was acquainted with the Mayor’s secretary, so he got off with only a lecture.

  Monday–4:55 P.M.

  The telephone rang with startling suddenness. Clancy looked at it blankly a moment, shook his head to clear it of the previous thoughts that had been swirling in it, and pushed aside the report he had been studying. He reached across the battered desk and scooped the receiver to his ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Clancy?”

  He recognized the voice and leaned back, relaxing. “Yeah.”

  “Doc Freeman here. About that old man that was found dead in that house over on the Drive this morning …”

  “Yeah.” Clancy reached for his pencil, inching a pad closer. For a moment he wondered what the stationery business would be without police lieutenants to consume their products, and then put the thought aside to pay attention to the thin voice coming to him over the wire.

  “Well, it looks as if he received a sharp blow—a very sharp blow, I should judge—in the general area of—in your language—the stomach. Rather high, I should say; right under the rib cage separation. We opened him up and he had a chest cavity full of blood from a ruptured pulmonary artery.” Doc Freeman had sounded as if he had been reading from a report; now his voice assumed human proportions, and sad ones at that. “That old man was in sad shape, Clancy. I’d judge it didn’t take too much force to rupture that artery.”

  Clancy was scribbling hastily, trying to keep up. He finished and leaned forward, twiddling his pencil as he spoke. “What about the bloody nose Stanton said he had? From a busted nose?”

  “It was busted, all right. Smashed.” The doctor’s voice became almost pontifical. “About the nose, I’d judge that in all probability they were both caused by the same thing …”

  “What?” Clancy interrupted in a disbelieving tone of voice. “Are you trying to tell me that his nose bled as a result of a ruptured artery in his chest?”

  “No, no!” Doc Freeman sounded testy. “Damn it, Clancy—if you’d only let a person finish what they started to say! I mean, in all probability both were caused by the same weapon. At the very least I’d say they both occurred at the same time.” He couldn’t help but hedge. “Or at least, at quite approximately the same time.” He hesitated, trying to put his next words in a form that would be useful to the branch of service charged with the apprehension of those responsible for these things. “It looks as if he were jabbed with something—in the face, breaking the cartilage of the nose, and also in the stomach, rupturing the pulmonary artery and causing death.”

  “I see,” Clancy said slowly. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placed it in the corner of his mouth, reaching for a match. His eyes were thoughtful. He lit the cigarette and tossed the match into a corner. “Do you have any idea of what that something might have been, Doc? The weapon, I mean?”

  Doc Freeman hesitated; he hated to make a positive statement about something he wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of. “It’s a bit hard to say, Clancy. Something like an umbrella, maybe—or in all probability, something a bit thicker. The bruise area on the chest was very restricted and quite regular. Something as big around as a broom handle would be more likely, I’d say offhand. It’s hard to be more definite, Clancy.”

  Clancy drew smoke deep into his lungs, leaned forward, and scraped ash
into an ash tray. He leaned back, still thinking. “Could it have been a crowbar, Doc? The report says that the back door looked as if it might have been pried open. By a tramp, possibly.”

  “It would depend upon what kind of a crowbar, Clancy. If he were poked with the sharp end of a standard crowbar—the kind used to open cases or boxes, for example—you could expect a more linear bruise. Or possibly even a lesion of the skin.” Doc Freeman sounded like an anatomy professor lecturing to a class, and not a particularly bright class at that. “And, of course, if the same tool were used to strike the face, an instrument like a crowbar should have done more damage …”

  “The way I heard it,” Clancy said, “there was plenty of damage done to his nose.”

  “Quite. But still, scarcely the damage one would expect from a metal instrument of the nature of a crowbar. Personally, I should be inclined to doubt that a crowbar was used.”

  There was silence for several seconds. Clancy tried to think of other questions that might prove helpful, but just couldn’t. He sighed and shook his head. “Well, I guess that’s that, then. Thanks just the same, Doc. When will I get it in writing?”

  “It’s being typed up by my secretary right now. Your precinct copy should be out there the first thing in the morning.” There was the briefest of pauses and then Doc Freeman added ingenuously, “In more technical language, of course. We have to maintain, protect, and advance the interests of our profession, you know.”

  Clancy grinned at the telephone. “Too well I know. I only wish we could also maintain and protect our profession that easily.” An additional thought came to him. “Say, Doc—what about the clothes this guy was wearing?”

  “I would judge they’re downstairs,” Doc Freeman said, never a man to make an unqualified statement. “When they come to me for examination, they’re baby-naked. And not particularly pretty. Do you want me to switch you down to Jimmy?”

  “Please.”

  Clancy waited while strange voices mingled unintelligibly on the line; it seemed to be a contest between the Bellevue operator and the AT&T. One finally dominated and the others, defeated, disappeared into the limbo of the ether. Clancy immediately recognized the high, inane voice. “Hello? Yes? Who’s this?”