Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Jimmy? This is Lieutenant Clancy at the Fifty-second Precinct. That old man that Doc Freeman just finished doing a post on—what did you find in his clothes?”

  Jimmy neighed. To the simple mind of the morgue attendant, something about the question seemed to strike him as comical. “That’s a rich one, Lieutenant. Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  The morgue attendant’s neigh drifted down to a giggle and then sloughed off into minor sniggers. It was obvious he had milked the joke for all it was worth. “Well, you should of had. This character has on long underwear, them old-fashioned kind with the buttoned trap-door in the seat; bedroom slippers each one a different kind and a different color; a pair of old patched Levi’s I don’t even know how he even got in them they was so small; one of them fancy-dan printed vests like them Mississippi card sharks used to wear in the movies; and then on top of everything else he has on one of them turtle-neck sweaters! I ain’t kidding. Like a college kid. And on a day as warm as this one, yet! Man; I wonder what he wears when it really gets cold! What a farce!”

  “Hilarious,” Clancy said drily, and made a mark on his pad. “What did you find in his pockets?”

  “Not much,” Jimmy said sadly. He sounded disappointed that the subject of the conversation did not lend itself to a continuation of the humorous vein. “In his pants pocket he had a rag I guess maybe he used sometimes for wiping his nose, and he had a key, maybe fits the front door. And in his fancy vest pocket he had a couple of coins.” His voice was somber. “That was the works, Lieutenant.”

  Clancy leaned forward in sudden interest, crushing out his cigarette in the ash tray. “Coins? What kind of coins?”

  “Foreign, I guess,” Jimmy said doubtfully. “Anyhow, not good old U.S.A. One of the boys on the stretcher gang down here knows something about them things, and he said these don’t have no special value. One of them was an English penny, I remember he said. Size of a lollipop.” The giggle came again, happy that the subject permitted it, and then faded dubiously. “I don’t remember what the other one was. Middle-size, I think. I can dig them out if you want, though.”

  Clancy made a note on his pad and turned back to the telephone, making up his mind. “Jimmy, listen. Put those coins in an envelope and make out a receipt to the Fifty-second. In my name. I’ll have them picked up this afternoon or first thing in the morning.”

  “Sure, Lieutenant. You want his other things, too?”

  Clancy thought about it, twiddling his pencil. He came to a decision. “Yeah, all right; some of them. Send the sweater and the vest along, too. The rest of the things you can hold.”

  “Right.”

  “And thanks, Jimmy.”

  “Any old time, Lieutenant,” Jimmy said airily, and hung up.

  Clancy eased the receiver back on the bar; it responded to this unusually gentle treatment by ringing again, angrily. He picked it up with a look bordering on the desire to strangle it.

  “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant? This is Kaproski. I finally got that cab downtown here, and I should of picked up fares for all the good the rush did. The lab guys won’t get a chance to go over it until tomorrow. I been waiting around in the hope they’d get busy on it, but two of them just got called out on a job, and the rest are all tied up. Plus it’s just about quitting time for the day crew—these guys work strictly union hours—and the night crew swears on a stack of bibles they’re loaded.”

  Clancy shrugged at the phone. “Forget about it, Kap—tomorrow will do.” A thought came to him. “And listen, since you’re downtown, go over and see Jimmy at the morgue …” He hesitated. “Do you know which one he is?”

  “Sure,” Kaproski said with confidence. “The goop.”

  Clancy didn’t discuss it. “He has a package for me. Pick it up and bring it back.”

  “Sure, Lieutenant. You going to be there when I get back?”

  “Probably,” Clancy said. He looked at the papers piled on his desk. “With my luck, probably. But just in case I’m not, put the package in one of the drawers of my desk and I’ll get to it tomorrow. And then you can knock off for the day if you can manage to get by the front desk without getting tagged for somebody’s assignment who’s out with the flu …”

  Kaproski chose to take the advice seriously. “Sure I can, Lieutenant. I can always go out through the garage.”

  Clancy grinned. “You know,” he said slowly, “that’s what I like about the men of the famous Fifty-second Precinct. They’re intelligent.” He hung up, happy; the phone buzzed madly again. Clancy’s happiness faded as quickly as it had come. “For Christ’s sweet sake!” he muttered angrily and almost jerked the phone from his desk in his irritation; his voice showed his feelings as he barked into it.

  “Now what!”

  “Clancy? What’s got you all fermisht all of a sudden?” It was amazing how Captain Wise, with only a few words, could manage to identify himself, his character, his background in Brooklyn, and his intense feelings. Clancy relaxed, smiling.

  “Hello, Sam.”

  “So hello!” Captain Wise was still irked; he forced himself to simmer down. “So how’s it going?”

  “How does it usually go around the Fifty-second?” Clancy asked, and immediately answered his own question. “Hectic; that’s how it goes around the Fifty-second.” He grinned at the receiver. “And where have you been all afternoon? At the movies?”

  Captain Wise’s tone indignantly denied the allegation. “Movies? It should happen! I been in Inspector Clayton’s office, that’s where I’ve been. With half the precinct captains in town, plus a couple of wheels from the State Department, and about two-thirds of the local FBI. Or maybe nine-tenths. They’re really worried about this UN thing.” Captain Wise sounded equally worried. “The rumors are really flying.…”

  “Rumors about what?”

  “Maybe rumors isn’t the right word,” the captain conceded, as if happy to oblige. His voice became serious again immediately. “Only thing is, everyone is scared to death one of these foreign big-shots might get bumped off. There are about eight of them here in town now it could happen to—that we know of, I mean—and God alone knows how many more it could happen to that we don’t know of. And the eggheads from the State Department made quite a deal about how it was our responsibility to see to it nobody gets hurt.” Captain Wise sounded understandably aggrieved. There was a pause as a sudden memory returned. “Hell, Clancy; you know about it. I told you myself this morning.”

  “I know you did, Sam,” Clancy agreed. He tilted his chair back and stared at the telephone. “My question is: what do all those brains expect us to do about it?”

  “That they don’t say. All they say is, just see to it that nobody gets killed.”

  “Great!” Clancy said in disgust. He brought his chair forward, leaning on the desk, tightening his grip on the receiver. “Sam, they’re crazy. They’re scared about the possible death of one out of eight or ten men. And I appreciate their feelings. The only thing is, we’re busy as hell worrying about a couple of men I know are dead, just in our precinct alone, and a lot more I know will be dead by tomorrow morning, if statistics mean anything! Not to mention all the other crimes that have taken place and are going to take place. Now, multiply that by the number of precincts in this city, and then you compare the problems! For Christ’s sake!”

  “Look, Clancy,” Captain Wise said patiently. “Don’t argue with me; I’m on your side. Tell it to Inspector Clayton, or the State Department, or even the FBI. They’re the ones screaming, not me. Anyway, that’s not why I called.” There was a dead pause for several seconds and then the heavy voice changed, attempting subtlety. “We just finished with this meeting, Clancy, and Sarah’s coming downtown to meet me for dinner. I figured, maybe if you were free tonight, with nothing to do, you could meet me and Sarah at the restaurant and eat with us. You haven’t seen Sarah for ages. And also we could even talk a little, maybe.…”

  Clancy stared at the telephone
with a suspicion that slowly became a certainty. “Sarah’s meeting you? And you want me to join you for dinner?” He nodded in sudden sure knowledge. “And I don’t suppose that you—or Sarah—would like me to bring along a date so the whole affair won’t be too lopsided?”

  There was a brief pause while Captain Wise cleared his throat self-consciously. “Actually, Clancy, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I think Sarah already arranged for somebody.…”

  “And I suppose that somebody just happens to be named Mary Kelly?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Captain Wise said, trapped, “I think Sarah did mention something about Mary Kelly.…”

  Clancy opened his mouth to let loose a blast calculated to teach Captain Wise a lesson in minding his own business, and then shut it slowly. And just what was wrong with the invitation? What was wrong with eating a pleasant meal across a table from friends instead of trying to choke down another soggy sandwich at his desk at the precinct, or trying to eke out companionship from the sport pages of the evening newspaper in the terrible restaurants he normally frequented? Just what was wrong with spending the evening with human beings, old friends, rather than spending it switching endlessly from TV to radio to staring blankly out of the window of his small apartment and eventually giving it all up to toss and turn in a lonely bed? What was wrong with it? Actually, nothing.

  “Sam, Sam,” Clancy said slowly. “Hold on to something. Get ready for a big surprise. I accept.”

  “Clancy, you’re nothing but a stubborn Irisher! So what did I do so wrong asking you to eat dinner with me and Sarah? That’s a crime now? So what if Mary Kelly …?” There was a sudden silence on the telephone. “You accept?”

  “Right,” Clancy said. “And I’ll even go so far as to thank you—and Sarah—for it. After today I’m ready for a decent meal with some friendly faces. Where do we meet?”

  He could almost see the look of amazed disbelief on Captain Wise’s face; he could also well imagine Sarah’s reaction had the good captain been unsuccessful in his sales pitch. “At Luchow’s, Clancy—on Fourteenth Street. At seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there,” Clancy said, and glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll put my stuff away and still have time to go home and clean up and shave. And change my shirt.”

  “And change your tie, too, Clancy.” Success had gone to Captain Wise’s head; he sounded almost dictatorial. “Put something on with a little leben so we’ll know you aren’t going to a funeral, God forbid. And while you’re at it, shine your shoes.”

  “Right. I’ll …” Clancy paused and a very odd look crossed his face. He dragged his pad toward him, picked up a pencil, and made a note. He nodded at the pad in satisfaction. “That was a very good idea, Sam, about shining my shoes. I’ll remember that.”

  Captain Wise stared at the telephone in his hand a moment in puzzlement, and then shrugged elaborately. “Of course, remember it,” he said. “And also don’t forget Luchow’s. At seven.”

  “At seven,” Clancy agreed, and hung the telephone back on its hook. He stared at it a moment, waiting for it to ring again, but it remained obediently silent. “Good boy,” he said approvingly, and patted it nicely on its thin body. When even this inducement failed to cause it to shrill, he winked at it genially and started to pack his papers into his desk.

  5

  The change in weather by Tuesday morning was something disheartening to the weather announcer, an avid weekday golfer, but it did hold some hope for the Police Department that the invitation to mayhem in the streets, brought on by the unseasonably warm days, might soon end. Approaching banks of shadowed slate-gray tumbled wildly in the sky to the north of the city; to the south the last vestiges of clear skies and wispy clouds fled fearfully before the threat contained in the boiling darkness behind them. The temperature had dropped twelve degrees in the past ten hours and promised to continue its downward path unaffected by wishes or needs—of golfers or policemen. Rain was a certainty within a brief period; the weather announcers admitted the fact with leaden voices. They seemed unable to understand how such a thing could have happened to nice people like them.

  Crime also seemed to recognize the approaching end to suitable weather. In the previous twelve hours there had been four attempted and two successful cases of rape—if rape can ever be successful—three cases of wife-beating, and nine barroom fights. In Queens a man had appeared at a police precinct and complained that he had been rolled by a girl, although he seemed very hesitant about detailing the full circumstances of his loss. Hubcaps had disappeared from all parts of the city, and a body had washed up from the Hudson at Forty-fifth Street with a suicide note in one pocket—protected by a plastic folder, a bit of consideration for the police which was, to say the least, unusual.

  In the Fifty-second Precinct, among other things, there was a report of a large quantity of narcotics missing from the Uptown Hospital. An orderly, employed there less than two weeks, was also missing. Nobody at the hospital had the faintest idea that the man was an addict and seemed shocked when it was suggested.

  Tuesday–9:10 A.M.

  A desk sergeant in any precinct in any big city is normally trained to be inured to surprise, but this time the sergeant who surveyed Lieutenant Clancy when he entered might be forgiven for allowing his mouth to drop open. Lieutenant Clancy was dressed in a new dark-blue raincoat, and beneath the neat folds could be seen an apparently new tweed suit with freshly pressed creases in the trousers. The necktie was also something of a shock, being neither blue, old, wrinkled, nor plain. And even more amazing, the lieutenant was whistling a rollicking tune with a fair degree of recognizability.

  Lieutenant Clancy nodded happily at the astounded sergeant, without breaking either his stride or the thread of melody flowing liquidly from his pursed lips, and turned in the direction of the corridor leading to his office. It was only as the trim figure was about to disappear beyond the turn in the hall that the startled desk sergeant suddenly came to life, remembering.

  “Hey, Lieutenant!”

  Clancy paused politely, allowing the whistle to trail into silence; it was obvious from his manner that he intended to resume it as soon as possible. He looked back at the sergeant pleasantly. “Yes?”

  “A couple of messages, Lieutenant.” The sergeant brought his glasses into position and fumbled among the loose papers in front of him. “First, Kap went downtown a couple of minutes ago. One of those guys that got mugged in the park on Sunday picked a face out of the gallery, and the other guy checked him out. Kap went down to go over it with them.”

  Clancy nodded. The sergeant picked up another slip of paper. “And that old man found dead over on the Drive—some woman called and said she’s his sister; she read about it in the papers. She’s going to arrange the funeral this morning, but she’ll be down to see you this afternoon. Around three o’clock, she said.”

  “Three,” Clancy repeated. “I’ll try to be here. Anything else?”

  “One more,” the sergeant said, and frowned, scratching his head in puzzlement as he contemplated the final note before him. He shook his head. “Another one of them nut-calls.”

  “Nut-calls?”

  “Yeah. Some character named Angelo says to be sure and tell you that six and six are twelve.”

  Clancy managed to keep his face straight. The code between him and Porky Frank had long ceased to be a necessity; now it had become a game which each man played with increasing attempts at originality. The desk sergeant stared at him.

  “You know who it was, Lieutenant?”

  “My math teacher,” Clancy said calmly, but behind the light façade his mind was working rapidly. So lunch would be taken with Porky. Possibly the bookie—for even to himself Clancy could never think of Porky as a stool pigeon—had important information. A second thought came to him and remained; maybe they could meet at Angelo’s and then go across the street and have a decent meal at the French restaurant there. Good food seems to perk me up, Clancy thought, and looke
d at the sergeant. “Anything else?”

  Papers were shuffled. “No; I guess that’s it.”

  Clancy nodded and went down the corridor to his office, the whistle returning to his lips, but more softly this time, tempered by the change in his thoughts from the warmth of the previous evening to Porky’s call and the stack of work lying in wait for him in the drawer of his desk. He stripped off his raincoat, gazed at it admiringly, and then hung it with care on a hanger which he placed on the hook back of the door. He started to flip his hat to the top of the filing cabinet in normal fashion, thought better of it, and hung it neatly over the raincoat. It was his Sunday best and deserved no less. He seated himself at his desk and pulled open the top drawer, dragging out the multiplicity of reports he had buried there the night before. He picked a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and then started to work, humming softly to himself.

  Tuesday–11:00 A.M.

  The telephone rang sharply; Clancy looked up, checked his wristwatch in surprise, and wondered where the time had gone. The telephone, uninterested in his thoughts and impatient with his dawdling, rang again, trying to make up for the delay by assuming a louder tone. Clancy winked at it and picked it up.

  “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant? This is Stanton.” There was great satisfaction in the deep voice. “Guess what? Whoever bopped that old man over here on the Drive should have stuck around. Keller and me, we been going through the junk here, and when we got around to some of those stacks of telephone books we hit pay-dirt. The first stack, in the kitchen where the old man was found, was clean and we almost gave them the brush, but then I figured we ought to tackle some of the others out in the hall …”

  “Let’s not break it down too fine,” Clancy said. “Get on with it.”