The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  The story would never be boring to Marie, no matter how many times she heard it. She was alert to every shift in nuance, wary of any potential contradiction, any signs of strain. Helen’s earlier rehearsal had calmed her; Patten’s even tone helped, as did the genial speed of the dialogue. An up-tempo pace worked best with certain witnesses—slow down, and they start to wobble. Just like riding a bike. Marie felt like an agent who’d brought a young talent in for an audition—With this one, I think you’ll be impressed—and Helen was hitting all her marks. Showing the money to a stranger near Grand Central. Autoclaved instruments. The Dalmatian. Marie blinked in sympathy when Helen was kicked out into the merciless sunlight. She felt warmly toward Benny when he found Helen in his car.

  “Thank you, Miss M—. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  With her white gloves, the hat with the little black veil that fell over her forehead, Helen looked chaste and penitent. She was perfect. Marie was certain that she’d cinched it, that they’d move ahead to the next round.

  “No, I thank you, Miss. And this ends the statement. The time now is fifteen-thirty hours. I thank you all. Officer, you may escort them out.”

  Marie didn’t know why he didn’t have them wait, in case the judge had questions, but she supposed that she could answer them herself. Clearly, they did things differently in Queens. Maybe she’d discreetly ask him for a referral for a divorce lawyer, “for a friend.” She guided Helen and Benny down the hall and into another elevator. Four detectives were arguing inside.

  “The hell with O’Connor, if he don’t go with it.”

  “If that isn’t murder, I don’t know what is.”

  “The hell with him.”

  “Knowing it ain’t the same as proving it, being able to prove it.”

  “The hell with him. He’s got a baby dead from an overdose. I don’t care whose drugs they were. Lock up the stupid whore of a mother.”

  “Lock ’em all up.”

  “Does O’Connor think they’re gonna make another movie about him? The Wrong Man. He’s the wrong man for this job.”

  “Where do you want to eat?”

  “I dunno. The Greek?”

  “God no, the German maybe. I need a beer.”

  “And if he don’t charge this broad with murder, I got friends at the papers—”

  “There’s a newspaper strike. What are they gonna do, write it in their diaries?”

  “Well, when they get back to work, they’re gonna ask him why. O’Connor doesn’t understand, cases aren’t always neat and clean, like in the movies.”

  When the elevator reached the ground floor, Helen and Benny were near collapse. Marie watched as one pair of terrified eyes locked on the other before searching for the exit. They were working to make their way in the world, to build something for themselves before having kids. Two years, maybe three. They never imagined that they would be in a place like this. Marie walked them through the lobby and shook their trembling hands. “What now?”

  “What next?”

  “I’ll let you know. This was the hardest part, though. You did good.” Benny’s mouth formed an awkward kind of grin, with the right side of his lip rising up, his jaw going sideways. “Thanks for being so nice to us, miss. And watch out for those knuckleballs.”

  “What?”

  Benny traced a finger below his eye. Marie wished she’d seen him smile before, to know if this was what it usually looked like. Was he insinuating that he saw through her story, or was he making a joke? “You can bet on it,” she said, winking and walking away. The elevator was empty when she returned. She was glad for the privacy, the moment to think. There was no risk of exposure, even if Benny had read her mind. He’d never say a word to anyone about anything that had happened today. She exhaled in relief.

  Marie found Patten behind the paper-stacked desk, writing on a legal pad. He gave her a quick wave, a half-nod, and part of a smile. “Officer, that was wonderful work. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad. Where do we go from here?”

  “Well, we have it on the record. Thanks to you.”

  “You’re welcome. And?”

  “And we will be in contact if anything else is required. Thank you again.”

  He didn’t look up from his pad. Was he writing about this case? A lawyer could take fifty pages to say yes, a hundred to say no. Patten hadn’t asked her for any of her paperwork, now that she thought of it. Marie’s stomach was heavy. Three thank-yous: that wasn’t good. “When do we go to the judge?”

  “As soon as possible. As soon as feasible and necessary. Thank you.”

  And now a fourth. Did he not like her witness, her ill-concealed black eye, or her hat? When the detective in the elevator threatened to go to the press, it sounded peevish—I’m telling Daddy!—but now she wondered if their case or hers would have been decided differently if public opinion were in play. The newspaper strike had shut down the seven daily papers since Christmas. No one knew what movies to see, or if there was a sale at Macy’s, or a protest in Harlem. When the presses stopped, any number of ordinary activities seemed to have been suspended as well; florists were going out of business because there were no obituaries.

  Marie returned the half-smile, pulled up a chair, and sat down. He finished a page, and he flipped to another. He looked at Marie without the smile and cleared his throat. Marie slowly rose, as if cowed, and walked over to the water cooler. She filled a paper cup and set it on Patten’s desk. “Sounds like you got a cough.”

  Deputy Bureau Chief Patten didn’t appear to be amused. “Officer, we have no further business here today.”

  “Counselor, I got that when you said, ‘possible, feasible, and necessary.’ If you meant it, you would have said, ‘soon.’ People go on like that when they’re bluffing. I don’t mean to be rude. I just want to save time. I have wiretaps all over the city, more than I can keep up with. But when Inspector Melchionne asks me what the problem is, I ought to be able to tell her. Before I leave, I want to know two things. The first, you can guess, so I’ll save that one.”

  Patten evinced annoyance and curiosity in equal measure. Marie was satisfied he wouldn’t call security before they finished. “When I took the witnesses down in the elevator, four detectives were up in arms over a case. A dead baby. Drugs were involved. I know they just came from a meeting, though obviously not with you. Still, why wouldn’t you charge the case like they wanted, with murder?”

  “Detective,” he began, “I’m not sure you’re entitled to an answer on either issue. But I appreciate you pointing out that particular verbal mannerism. I play poker, not as well as I’d like, and now I have an idea why. And so, I’ll tell you.”

  Marie didn’t know if he intended to flatter her by calling her “Detective,” or if her insubordination had made him forget how insignificant she really was.

  “In this case, the mother was a sixteen-year-old prostitute with an IQ of seventy. She had a two-year-old son of unknown paternity. From what we know, she lived with someone she described as an ‘uncle,’ in a garage near a junkyard. He sold heroin, and he sold this young woman. The child ingested heroin at some point and died. The police were notified when the woman went to a neighboring garage, asking for a shovel to bury him.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m glad you do. And while I am extremely sympathetic to these detectives’ frustration, there are two kinds of murder, as you know: to intentionally cause the death of a person, or to cause a death by conduct evincing a ‘depraved indifference to human life.’ Like firing a gun into a crowd, or poisoning a well. We have depravity in abundance here, to be sure. Given her age and intellect, Mr. O’Connor is inclined to charge Manslaughter in the Second Degree, under the theory of gross negligence. That is a failure to exercise a reasonable level of care, by someone with a specific duty to the deceased. Everyone knows what a mother should be, what a mother should do, keeping her baby safe. Might I ask you, Detective, do you
have children?”

  Marie knew that Patten was practicing with her, rehearsing a speech for a jury. And she had been persuaded. Patten had made a skillful argument, a thoughtful argument, but the bid for cheap sentiment was insulting. Do you have children yourself? That was what the car salesman said when he tried to steer you to the bigger models on the lot. She’d listen to him, but she wasn’t going to ask him for a divorce lawyer. “Yes, I do. I have a daughter. Do you have children?”

  “Yes, two boys and a—”

  Patten glared at her, inspecting her face for any signs of mockery. “That is neither here nor there. But I hope I’ve given you some perspective on the situation, how the police might see this case one way—a very human, natural, normal way—but the law is the law. Nothing can interfere with our duty to it. Still, I understand why the police might not be happy with Mr. O’Connor. Did they make jokes about the movie, about The Wrong Man?”

  “I’m with you, Counselor, on the manslaughter charge,” she deflected. “A hard call, but it seems like you made the right one.”

  Patten set an elbow on his desk and planted his great, jutting chin in his hand. “I’m glad you agree, Detective. Your opinion matters. It does. I’m not a superstitious man, but I wonder about the coincidence, when you ask about what you overheard in the elevator, and this matter with Dr. Lothringer. Think of this sixteen-year-old girl, who was the definition of an unfit mother,” he intoned, his rhythm quickening. “An imbecile, a prostitute. Hopeless and nearly helpless, unable to care for herself, let alone a bastard child, of whose father nothing can be said except that he must truly be of the dregs of humanity. Who else would couple with a creature like that?”

  Patten paused for Marie to assent, which she did with a forceful nod. His gestures became stagey, but his disgust was unaffected. “Think of this child. What hope did it have? Was there any chance it could have grown to be anything but a criminal, a lifelong burden on society? Think of the bloodlines! With its mother an idiot, its father an animal, the wretched thing truly never should have been born.”

  Marie nodded again, with less vigor. Talk of lower orders and lesser breeds made her ill at ease, having been accounted among them on occasion. At least Patten was working toward his conclusion: “Let me put it this way, Detective. Had this sixteen-year-old girl met Dr. Lothringer, early in her pregnancy, would it have been such a terrible thing?”

  Marie didn’t have an answer.

  “I put it to you, it would have been better if she had.”

  Marie knew she was unlikely to prevail in debate against a man of Patten’s talent and training. Arguments in her house weren’t won by oratorical skill. Still, she wasn’t about to roll over for him. “No, I’ll give you that the two-year-old probably wasn’t going to cure cancer, or help us beat the Russians to the moon. But Helen and Benny, their kid would have grown up to be a taxpayer, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a fair point. Let me ask you then, do you think Helen should be arrested? You can still go arrest her, if you want.”

  Marie didn’t care for the new course of conversation. “Why? It’s not as if you’re going to prosecute.”

  “Come now, Detective. Do you think Helen should be arrested?”

  “That’s not the way we do it. I don’t make the policy.”

  “Suppose you did? Suppose our places were reversed, and you were on my side of the desk, and I was the cop. Obtaining an abortion is a misdemeanor, and you are empowered under state law to prosecute. You have a duty to prosecute. You’re sworn to prosecute. Go ahead, send me out to lock her up!”

  Marie didn’t know why the city had decided to only partially enforce the law. It seemed wise to her, and kind. Who decided what rules were to be followed, and which were to be ignored—the five district attorneys, the police commissioner? Was it Mrs. M.? Patten saw her discomfort, and he pressed his advantage. “Tell me, do you think what Helen did was wrong?”

  “How I feel doesn’t matter, Counselor.”

  “Come on, Detective! Yes, it’s a big, rough city, full of raw deals and rotten compromises. But we try to do good, and we feel better when we do it, don’t we? We both know that stealing is wrong, but if someone cheats on the electric meter, our outrage is not the same as when someone takes the poor box at church. You’re happier to make that arrest, we’re happier to prosecute, and that thief, I can assure you, will get more time than anyone fiddling with the meter. I saw you with Helen. You are professional, I’m sure, even with witnesses you don’t care for. But you didn’t look down on her, you didn’t have to swallow any disapproval. Am I right?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The policewomen who worked these cases talked about “AB witnesses,” as if they were bystanders at a car crash. Marie felt no scorn for Helen. She liked her well enough. Under other circumstances, they might have been friends, both of them Bronx girls from modest backgrounds, aspiring to better lives. There was pity for the obviously pitiful—the girls of promise and potential, whose bodies had been scarred. And pity for those without promise, like Patten’s sixteen-year-old, whose lives stood out like surveyors’ flags, mapping the outer boundaries of earthly misery. But there was little contempt for the others, either. The ones who got away with it, so to speak, ending their unwanted pregnancies without incident. Women like Helen.

  “Well? What does that tell you? What are you telling yourself? Look, we’re in the 1960s. The world is changing, faster than we know. You mentioned the race to the moon. The stuff of comic books, not so long ago. Even the Catholic Church is joining the modern world. Thousands of its finest minds are in Rome for the Vatican Council. A generation ago, it would have been unimaginable for a lady police officer to sit where you sit, aggravating a bureau chief because they don’t like the way a case is going. Many of your colleagues, maybe even the four you met in the elevator, see you as proof that the police department has gone straight to hell. Am I wrong?”

  Again, Marie had no reply.

  “I’ll be up-front with you, perhaps more than I should. Mr. O’Connor has decided that this office will not pursue abortion cases against doctors. Where there are persons without medical competence performing medical procedures, we will prosecute. With professional men, no. Without them, these unfortunate women will go to the black market, where they can be preyed upon by hacks and quacks.”

  Marie thought he’d made an interesting speech, an inspiring speech, and she liked how he’d gone from Rome to the moon before circling back to Jamaica Boulevard. But she’d listened to too many wiretaps to hold the professionals in higher regard than the hacks and quacks. She could tell him about Dr. D. and the baby in the dump. “Thank you for giving it to me straight. I don’t know if I agree with everything you’ve said, but it’s not my job to agree or disagree. I’ll tell Inspector Melchionne, and if she has any questions, I’m sure she’ll call you or Mr. O’Connor herself. For what it’s worth, I never met Dr. Lothringer, but I can promise you, he’s no humanitarian.”

  “The man has no criminal record. Not even a traffic ticket.”

  “You tend to stick to the speed limit when you have an anesthetized girl stuffed in the back of your station wagon.”

  Patten pursed his lips. The conversation was over. He hadn’t persuaded Marie, but he’d unsettled her. It would take some time to sort through her thoughts.

  “Thank you for all your fine work, young lady.”

  Officer, detective, and now “young lady.” It was time to go. Once she took her leave, so many thoughts crisscrossed her mind that it went blank. She doddered through the lobby as if guided by a kind stranger who led her by the hand. Outside, the heedless crowds shuffled past on the sidewalk. She took her hat off to fan herself, and the brim struck her bruise. The day had been a disaster at home, a travesty at work. Her eye started to tear. She put her hat back on and started to walk to her car.

  They weren’t going to get a better witness than Helen. Anywhere else in the city, prosecutors would have been thrilled to
put her on the stand. Helen wasn’t a slow girl with a new stepfather, a deaf mute grabbed by a pack of ghetto kids when she tried the shortcut home down an alley. Not on her tenth pregnancy by an alcoholic husband. And then Marie stopped short on the sidewalk, even as people bumped into her as they passed. Helen was in the least desperate circumstances of anyone Marie had encountered in this work. She wanted to marry Benny, and he wanted to marry her; they wanted children, but not yet. Had they married in 1963, out of obligation, rather than in 1964, by choice, their marriage may have been harder, their prospects fewer, at least at first. Maybe Benny would have had to quit school to work, and he’d never advance as he’d hoped. Or maybe the couple would have moved in with one of their parents for a year, so Benny could finish college, and Helen would have help with the baby. And they’d have the life they wanted, except a little sooner. Not quite as planned. Which was how life happened, as far as Marie understood, even for people who planned better than she had. Did Helen and Benny really think that life was intentional? Ah, to be young and naive!

  And yet Marie didn’t think the worse of Helen. Marie had run away to the Barbizon when she was pregnant, with a baby she wanted, at a time of her choosing. She hadn’t gone back to Sid by her own free will. She knew the terror of feeling trapped, betrayed by her own enemy body; the seasickness inside that made her want to drown; the hard hope that the next hell couldn’t hurt worse than this one. Those might have been the most trying days in a life that didn’t lack for trial. Marie wouldn’t allow that Helen was right to do what she’d done. She didn’t really know what she thought, or even if she wanted to know. “They don’t pay me enough to think,” as the old cynics said. That wasn’t Marie’s attitude, to be sure. But her job had trained her to see Helen as a prospect more than a person, part of a solution to a problem. The collapse of the investigation had rendered Helen uselessly human. Marie wished her well, but she wasn’t unhappy that they wouldn’t meet again.