The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  Marie went back to the kitchen and called the precinct. In the living room, she resisted the temptation to straighten up, although the only straightening needed was with the coffee table and chair that Gino had kicked over. There hadn’t been a fight here, either. When she sat down on the couch, she wondered how much of the pain in her head was from the butt of the gun. No fight in the living room, no fight in the bedroom. Charlie’s last words to her were “Make it eight, sharp. Don’t be late.” After insisting she could pin a murder on Gino. Don’t worry about rules and lawyers, she’d said. Just show up and we’ll take it from there. Eight, sharp. Marie had been early, but Gino was always on time.

  The sound of sirens liberated her from the gauntlet of revelations. Patrolmen arrived, and then bosses and precinct detectives—Ralph Marino among them—and then Paulie and Paddy. She repeated her account in expanding detail for each successive wave, but she couldn’t have told a tenth of what had happened, even if she tried. This was the gist: Charlie had called with information about Gino; he had just killed her when Marie came in; after a struggle, he knocked her out and left. The bosses were content with the outline, satisfied that the case would be brought to a rapid conclusion. They asked only if she’d fired her gun, or if she needed medical attention. Ralph and the other detectives wanted particulars on time lines and statements. Paulie and Paddy said nothing. From the patrolmen, she overheard mumblings of praise for her moxie and dismay at her risk taking. There was an outpouring of concern for her safety, and a suggestion or two that it would have ended very differently had a real cop been here.

  Marie retreated to the kitchen for more water, and Paulie and Ralph followed to continue the interview in privacy. Ralph exemplified the moxie-praising contingent; Paulie, the dismay.

  “You’re sure you’re okay, Marie?” Ralph asked. “It doesn’t look like you’re bleeding. Don’t get down on yourself about anything—if you couldn’t save Charlie, nobody could. What a shame, I’m sorry. She was a real firecracker. And if you don’t mind my saying, I never saw a prettier stiff. Like Sleeping Beauty.”

  Paulie shook his head. “These people are degenerates, one way or another. But this one? This one makes me sick. You know she set you up, right?”

  Marie grieved to hear him, but she couldn’t disagree. Hadn’t Charlie said that the only way she was sure she could leave Gino was to put him in prison? Now, he was facing life. Hadn’t she said that it would be better to be killed by someone who loved you, instead of a stranger on the street? Still, Marie didn’t hate her, even now, and she knew she never would. “Yeah. What I don’t know is, if she expected me to collar him or kill him. ‘Whatever it takes,’ remember?”

  Ralph hadn’t gotten that far ahead, apparently, and his protest was explosive: “Did she? My God, Marie! That’s the worst. Not that I knew her, but I never woulda guessed she’d throw you under the bus like that.”

  The next contributor to the conversation was less welcome. “That’s because you don’t got a woman’s intuition. We tore up the place pretty good, but we didn’t find any diary. Who knows if there really is one? We did find this, though. Here you go, bright eyes, I think you deserve the souvenir.”

  When Marie turned to face Paddy, she saw that he held the little dog. She recalled his trick with the toothpick, years before, and her jaw tightened. It seemed to recognize her, barking and leaping up to lick her face. She didn’t want to take anything from Paddy, even this, but Ralph urged her to bring it home. “Otherwise, it goes to the pound. They’ll put it down, unless we find next of kin.”

  Marie wanted to leave almost as much as she had the last time she was here. The second-to-last time, when Giaconda had visited, and Gino asked Marie to come into the bedroom with them. Her head hurt. The only thing that held her was a reluctance to depart without some kind of comeback for Paddy. Was it just that? No, there was more. When Charlie had called earlier, she’d done the old soft-shoe when pressed for specifics about heroin, and the murder evidence she claimed to possess was—umm, premature?—but she’d been matter-of-fact about the diary. It had to be here somewhere. Charlie wouldn’t have left it on the nightstand for Gino to take.

  Marie rolled the little dog in the crook of her arm to rub its belly and didn’t look up as she offered her thoughts. “Well, Paddy, you missed this little cutie, the first time you looked. Once, I couldn’t find the entrance ramp to the George Washington Bridge, but I didn’t go home and tell everybody there’s no such thing as New Jersey. And Paulie, far be it from me to suggest that you—or anybody you might know—might be in the habit of talking out of turn to the press, but why don’t we say we found it? And what it said that one of the boys was was cheating the boss with dope, one with—”

  Marie never understood how Charlie’s reason to live had become a reason to die. Her leaving Gino, Gino leaving her; what was the difference? Going or staying, that was the real quandary. But even on the ride home, Marie had already begun to take a cold consolation from the episode. Charlie never doubted that Marie was more than a match for whoever set himself against her. That the lesson was a little neat, and that she hadn’t really learned it, were thoughts for another day.

  The following morning, this was the headline of the early edition:

  MOBSTER’S GAL PAL HAS THE LAST WORD

  The underworld is abuzz with rumors that the murdered mistress of a Mafia drug kingpin kept a diary of their most sensational secrets. Worse still, according to confidential sources, are details of hoodlums’ double-dealings with each other, and not just with money, but in affairs of the heart . . .

  This time, Marie didn’t mind that her name was left out of the story. Marino called to let her know that the diary had turned up in the apartment, as predicted, but he found the handwriting difficult to decipher. Narcotics had it now, and they would make of it what they could. Gino’s body had been found as well. It wasn’t pretty, Marino told her, and she didn’t ask for details. Had she known it would end like this? She hadn’t thought that far ahead, but she supposed that she’d have guessed as much. It was either his friends or the electric chair, though it sounded as if the chair would have been kinder. She took Gino’s death with the same flat detachment as he’d taken Charlie’s: he was gone, and that was that. Who had time for recriminations? Charlie had been right not to fret about the rules of evidence. If a judge wouldn’t allow twelve men to hear her, she’d make her case to the millions. Charlie had said what she needed to say, and no one could shut her up, even now.

  13 YOU DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO

  I will ask you to consider the probabilities in this case. And I’m going to ask you that, when the proof is all in, to see if you don’t say to yourself that this is a tragic case of mistaken identity.

  —Frank D. O’Connor Alfred Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man

  MAY 1, 1963

  0900 HOURS

  Marie had been waiting for a sign, but this was not it. On the Bronx River Parkway, a milk truck had jammed itself into a picturesque stone overpass, halting all southbound cars for half a mile. What was the message, that she was stuck? She knew that already. Stuck: that was the word of the day. There was so much inside of her—in her body, on her mind—that she wanted to get out. Bits of both had managed to escape lately. She didn’t know whether she was gaining courage or losing control. Sid had taken his weekend getaway without her. When he returned, she was tempted to tell him she was pregnant, if only to make him as miserable as she was, but she held back. Soon, it wouldn’t be possible to avoid the subject. Maybe she’d feel better, once she let it out. Hadn’t it done her a world of good when she told Gino? It had saved her life. She bellowed through the car window, “Make way! Lady with a baby here! Make way!”

  Nope. Still stuck. This morning, Sandy had a fit because the blouse she wanted to wear to school was in the laundry. The unexpected gift of the pet had bought a week of beatific behavior from her; that, too, was apparently at an end. And the stupid little dog had pissed all over the kitchen this morn
ing. Looking at the gas gauge, she saw the tank was perilously low. As other drivers began to press on their horns, Marie turned up the volume on the radio as the announcer began the lead story of the hour, his voice mellow and crisp.

  “An appalling discovery was made in Queens when pieces of a girl’s body were found clogging the waste disposal drain leading from a residence and doctor’s office. The area has been roped off, and there is frantic activity as attempts are made to retrieve the bits of bone and flesh. The victim is believed to be a nineteen-year-old girl from Westchester, missing since Sunday, when she went to the doctor’s home for an abortion. An alarm has been issued for Dr. Harvey Lothringer of 185-01 Union Turnpike—”

  Marie didn’t hear the rest, and not just because of the blare of horns. She looked at the stalled line of cars ahead of her. She looked to her left, where the Bronx River lolled past, a wide brown ripple flanked by verdant lawn. On the far side, a woman held her daughter’s hand at the bank, as the child threw bread to Canada geese. Marie wanted to abandon her car and wade across to join them.

  Marie wouldn’t have gone to Lothringer. She hadn’t decided what she would do. By not-deciding long enough, the decision would be made for her, she knew. But she couldn’t think of a doctor she’d investigated she’d trust to operate on her. Even when she was only pretending to be a patient, she’d found something repellent in each of them—a lecherous glance, breath fragrant with gin. With Lothringer, his cold manner and secretive maneuvers were disturbing enough; and then there was his dog. His dog! Marie would have given anything to make this go away. She would have cut off her hair and braided it into a frame around a picture of St. Anthony, like Mama had. But Marie couldn’t pray for what she wanted. St. Anthony was the patron saint of lost things, not things you wanted to lose. Tony, Tony, don’t turn around . . . She turned the radio back on.

  “The extent of Lothringer’s operations was indicated by District Attorney Frank D. O’Connor: ‘My men moved in to pick Lothringer up on Monday in connection with two other abortions. We were just a day too late. His home had been under surveillance for weeks. He was part of a full-blown abortion ring, with steerers and referrers, operating citywide and throughout the state. Because of the present confusion over the legality of wiretaps, we did not wiretap the house. If we had used wiretaps, this poor girl would be alive today.’

  “In the Bronx, the Yankees lost, after a late-inning rally—”

  Marie turned off the radio. She felt cold, confused. She’d never heard O’Connor speak before. Could it really be him, telling such lies? Her imagination had been stretched beyond its ordinary contours lately, and the muscle tone might have become a little slack. What the hell had O’Connor said? We were just a day too late.

  When Marie touched her forehead, her hand was wet with perspiration. Because of the present confusion over the legality of wiretaps, we did not wiretap the house. If we had used wiretaps, this poor girl would be alive today.

  How could the man stand to live with himself? O’Connor didn’t have to wiretap his office to find out how many wiretaps he had going. He had dozens of them. This game was as fixed as any game show had been. There was no mystery to these mystery boxes, and no prize hidden in any of them. She wasn’t sure if she was angrier at Lothringer, or O’Connor, or the driver of the milk truck who trapped her on the road. O’Connor: he had shut down her case, and now he’d closed off her options. Queens wasn’t safe territory for someone to approach somebody, to talk about whether it might be possible, even to consider—

  Nope, this had to stop. And she had to go. Hadn’t she been waiting for a sign? Marie wouldn’t let this morning last any longer than it had to. She needed to move, to feel the free air on her face. She looked at the right side of the road, at the apron of grass that dipped down into a ditch and rose up to a row of hedges at the edge of the street. There seemed to be a gap at the top. What did the traffic rules matter, after the stone tablets of the commandments had been shattered? She pressed her elbow into her horn, cut the wheel hard, and stepped on the gas. As she bounced down the green incline and then back up, her car skidded, tearing up the turf, but managed the summit. A chorus of horns blasted their denunciations. She flattened the hedge as she vaulted through and made a rough landing on the asphalt. She was moving. Now, she could get to work, but she was irate and bedraggled, unfit for company.

  After finding a gas station, Marie went to the ladies’ room to make herself presentable. She was starting to feel a little better now, shadowboxing before she had to start throwing real punches. She’d make Lothringer pay, and she’d hold O’Connor to account. What did she have to lose? When she arrived downtown, she was in a mood of grim readiness.

  As Marie marched into the office, the policewomen on clerical duty gathered in the vicinity regarded her in quiet horror, before letting loose a volley of questions.

  “Marie, did you hear?”

  “It’s all over the news—”

  “You can’t believe the phone calls—”

  “It’s bad, Marie, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing—”

  Marie was annoyed by their henhouse noise. Didn’t they have anything better to do? She raised her hands and nodded—Yes, I know—as if to brush them away. Emma led her in to the director. Mrs. M. was on the phone.

  “I agree completely. Not at all, she’s right here . . . No, on the contrary, I’m quite certain there is no need for you to speak with her. I am her supervisor, and what needs to be said and done will be said and done by me.”

  Mrs. M. shook her head when she spoke. Her eyes shut, and her mouth narrowed, and one of her hands opened and shut, as if squeezing juice from an unripe fruit. Marie was gladdened that they seemed to be just as angry, in exactly the same way. “Yes, we should speak this afternoon. Goodbye.”

  When Mrs. M. hung up the phone, she missed the receiver. For a woman of her poise, the slightest loss of control made her look epileptic. “That was Mr. O’Connor,” said Mrs. M., closing her eyes again. “You can imagine his concerns. He finds himself in an awkward position. And he intends to ascertain, rather rudely, whether we will make it more so, or less. I don’t care for his tone.”

  Marie gripped the arms of her chair. Rude? That man, to this woman? It was more than Marie could bear. “Let’s hang him out to dry! If he’d done his job, that little girl would be alive today. Does he think he’s gonna be mayor? If you let me—”

  “Possibly,” interjected Mrs. M., with a welcome recovery of equilibrium. “And perhaps not. The human tragedy remains, of course, but there may be advantages for us, in how this is resolved.”

  The musing and detached tone, so quickly regained, made Marie more uneasy than the brief lapse in composure. Mrs. M. continued, “Your request for a wiretap application was denied some six weeks ago. Many of these cases go on far longer, as you are well aware, and I recall that your interest in Dr. Lothringer was inspired, in part, by the ingenuity of his defenses. This could have occurred under our watch. We’re fortunate, in a sense. This circumstance could provide an opportunity.”

  Marie supposed that she agreed, but when she nodded, she felt like a coward. There were politics to everything, and the vast majority of the men in the department understood the word policewoman to be a contradiction in terms. Still, the last comment reminded Marie of an undertaker measuring a body to calculate the markup on the coffin.

  “And let’s not forget,” the inspector went on, wearily and with less warmth, “that the girl—with her mother accompanying her, God help us—was hardly blameless. The only true innocent was the child. I wonder what they will say to each other, when they meet before St. Peter?”

  Marie could not envision divine judgment so specifically, with the mother and unborn child arraigned like bar brawlers on the last docket of night court. Marie hadn’t really thought about the girl as a person, let alone as a perpetrator. She didn’t even know her name. Whoever the father was, he couldn’t be worse than Sid. Would Mrs. M. judge Marie so harshly, if she
died in the same way? Would Mrs. M. even show up at her funeral? Maybe if she told Mrs. M. what it was like to be married to Sid, how the years of hurt made the life inside her feel like a death sentence—No, she couldn’t. Mrs. M. shook her head, as if she’d read Marie’s mind. “What were these people thinking? The woman was at least five months pregnant. It is one thing to solicit a murder, another to expect a miracle. There is blood on all of their hands.”

  No, Marie wouldn’t say a word. Everything was at risk with her pregnancy; everything was at risk if she tried to end it. She wished she were still stuck in traffic on the Bronx River Parkway. The inspector looked into the distance for a while, indifferently squinting, as if at a billboard that she couldn’t quite read. And then she sighed, scanning her desk for a manila file with newspaper edging beyond the borders. She handed it to Marie.

  “I need you to prepare a dossier for them. A summary of your investigation. This is coverage of the incident. You may be able to provide insight, with your familiarity with his modus operandi. Is there anything else you might require?”

  “No.”

  “Any suggestions or comments?”

  “I might as well get to it.”

  As Marie took the folder, Mrs. M. gave her one of her probing looks. “Forgive me, my dear. I anticipated a debate with you, and I am grateful for its brevity. I know you feel deeply about your work, which is why I so value you. A false distinction, don’t you think—personal and professional? No professional is ever that, unless she cares, very personally. I’ve had an office cleared for the next several hours, so that you may work without interruption.”

  Emma escorted Marie down the hall, dismissing with a severe look a lanky geriatric who departed with surly reluctance from his niche. Aside from a typewriter, the surface of his desk was empty, as if a wind had swept it clean, and Marie saw its contents in a cardboard box on the floor. She glanced at the topmost pages and saw correspondence with a horseshoe factory in Pennsylvania; other equestrian matters were beneath. The department had a Mounted Division, she knew, and she supposed that someone had to be responsible for its administrative particulars. She wasn’t offended that the policewomen were stabled near the horses, so to speak, but this alcove depressed Marie. The old clerk Marie had displaced may have first read with horror about Model Ts while sitting at this desk—Horseless carriages!—and wondered for the last half century when he’d be given his final notice.