The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  That shut them up. For a wordless moment, they stared out the windshield, imagining the bloody wonder that Marie had conjured: Pop-pop! Pop! Instead, Sid and Macken shook hands and went back to their cars. Sid drive off. Ed sighed, and Al whistled. Maybe next time. It was almost eleven, time to go home. Marie started to pull out when the radio spoke again. “Car 235? You out there, 235?”

  It was Macken. Marie looked at Ed and Al. Had Macken seen them? Of course not. He’d have confronted them if he noticed, and noticing had never been his strong suit. It was late enough for them to claim they were already back in the office and hadn’t heard the radio. “What do you think?”

  Al shook his head. “Don’t answer. No news is good news, especially from him.”

  Ed disagreed. “Nah, he’s been out here all night with the Farmer. Murtagh said he had a line on something good, something easy, and he wanted to keep it for himself.”

  Marie nodded. “And now he thinks it’s gone cold. Or he’s cold, and he’s getting tired, and he wants to go home. This one’s up to you two. I’ve caused enough grief for one day. We can call it a night and enjoy the weekend, or see what happens. You guys decide.”

  Al muttered from the back, “If those two dummies think the lead’s cold, I bet it’s red hot. What do you think, old man?”

  “I already feel a little sunburn,” said Ed, picking up the radio. “235, on the air.”

  “Yeah, meet me on Five-Seven, between Seven and Eight.”

  57th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues. “10-4.”

  Macken and the Farmer stood on the sidewalk, smoking cigars and laughing. Ed put the microphone down and moaned. “What a lummox! We’re on 58th Street. Doesn’t he even know where he is? Let’s have a little fun.”

  They slipped out of the car and ducked down the block, crossing the street at the corner to double back. Al went ahead of Ed and Marie. As they approached their marks, she saw from the exhaust that Macken’s car was running. Al was dressed in his usual hobo style, in a wool coat and cap. He went to the car twenty feet ahead of the lieutenant and tried the door handles—front, back, driver’s side, passenger’s—before he flamboyantly took out a coat hanger and made to pop the lock. When Macken and the Farmer jumped out to give chase—“Halt! Police!”—they moved like yoked oxen. Marie and Ed let them run half a block ahead. There was no chance they’d catch up to Al, but there was a risk they’d fire a shot. Ed raced ahead to steal their car, and Marie jumped in beside him as they sped down the block. They didn’t slow down when they passed them, or otherwise offer any sign that they were, ostensibly, on the same side of the law. Instead, they took a leisurely lap around the block, making odd, yipping noises with the siren, as if kids had stolen it, taunting Macken to picture how he’d have to explain the theft of the cop car, keys included. The two oafs were back where they’d begun their chase when Ed and Marie found them, doubled over and winded. “Jeez, Lieutenant!” Ed yelled, as he jumped out of the stolen car. “Are you guys okay? What happened?”

  Marie grabbed the Farmer by the shoulders. “Are you crazy? You left your car open, anybody could have stolen it!”

  Ed went on, “Thank God we came when we did! Boy, there would have been hell to pay, if you guys had a department car stolen from you. They would have put you guys through the ringer. Some of the bosses, they got no sense, no decency.”

  Marie bit her lip. The Farmer gasped and spat. “Gun. He had a gun. He tried . . .”

  Marie supposed that was true. Al did have a gun. The lieutenant coughed and slumped over the hood of a Cadillac as he added his testimony. “He tried to . . . tried to steal a car, right in front of us. He was fast. Looked Puerto Rican . . .”

  “Well, you might as well catch your breath,” said Ed, “I bet he’s on the next flight back to San Juan. Cheap airfare these days, I hear. Can’t beat the price. Which car? Was it one of the new Buicks? A beautiful set of wheels. Wish I had one.”

  Marie turned away, pretending to sneeze. She wanted to tell Ed not to push it so hard, but she couldn’t. She hoped he’d take this right to the edge, and then over it.

  “Thank God we got here in time!” she exclaimed.

  “You know, Lieutenant, what Marie says goes double for me. That you guys are all right is the most important thing. Lucky we were in the area. Thank heaven, no harm was done. That Puerto Rican, he’ll be back for another Buick, and you’ll get that rascal next time. What was it you wanted us here for?”

  Marie was glad it was dark, and the two buffoons were spent, mentally and physically. She kept her distance until she finished laughing. In time, the lieutenant managed to say that they had been watching a car with Florida plates that the FBI had told them about. “Those damned Feds got it wrong. They went on about big-time thieves and a big hotel job. White Cadillac with Florida plates. It’s gonna happen tonight, they swore it. Some hotshots they turned out to be! They said to print the car, inside and out, if nothing happened by midnight. Call Crime Scene, they’ll take care of it. You three wait here until they come.”

  Ed asked, “Is that the Cadillac you’re leaning on now, Lieutenant?”

  “Oh, yeah, well . . .”

  They didn’t point out that they’d need a warrant to take fingerprints from inside the car. Or that calling Crime Scene this late when no one had been murdered was a waste of a dime. Arguing with him would shift the last laugh to the wrong side of the table. Once Macken and the Farmer departed, Al strolled back to ask, “Did we kill ’em yet?”

  Ed replied, “No, but the night is young.”

  Two hours later, a three-man crew of master thieves were in handcuffs. The agents hadn’t been oversold the case: the Caddy’s trunk was full of sample cases that salesmen at the National Retail Jewelers’ Convention didn’t even know were gone. A kit of burglar’s tools that later went on display at the FBI Academy in Quantico was recovered, as was a collection of four hundred keys that opened every hotel room in New York City. By morning, there was a crowd of reporters at the precinct, and the stories about the collar ran on radio, TV, and in the papers. The three detectives were untouchable, beyond the reach of their doubters. To make it all the sweeter, Macken was screamed at by the captain, the inspector, and even the Chief of Detectives himself for not notifying them about the arrest.

  At the end, Marie felt as if she were dreaming. For a moment she was, and she might not have opened her eyes again. By Saturday afternoon, she’d been awake for a day and a half. As the weak winter sun began to set and snow began to fall, she was driving on the Bronx River Parkway when she felt the car scrape the center median. She jerked the wheel and skidded onto the grass beside the river, making the geese scatter. She got out of the car and jumped up and down, but she still wasn’t fully awake. She was almost home. Not home, but Vera’s. Close enough. She took her shoes off and stepped out onto the cold ground. It hurt, but she had to keep her eyes open for the next five minutes. She pictured a newspaper story, “Lady Detective Dies in Crash,” that wouldn’t have merited more than a paragraph, far from the front page. That wasn’t the way she wanted to go, and now wasn’t the time. Her feet went numb as she danced on the frozen grass.

  SIX

  TONY, TONY, TURN AROUND

  21 YOU’LL MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE

  The Police Department does not persist with its heroes; there is not a gradual letting go. It is a quick thing, as quick as the event. One day your name is headlined, editorialized; your picture is on the front pages and on the television screens—and the next day you are on patrol. You are even, to some degree, suspect. Should you follow up a sensational arrest with another unusual incident, eyebrows are raised. . . . On the other hand, should your arrest record hit a slump, questions are raised as to whether or not you are resting on your laurels. Publicity marks you in the Department.

  —Dorothy Uhnak

  Policewoman

  APRIL 20, 1965

  0945 HOURS

  “This is a new assignment for you,” Lt. Horvath told Mari
e. “And it’ll take some time for you to see how we work. For the first three months, you’ll be with a veteran investigator. You won’t be expected to make any arrests. You won’t be allowed to, as a matter of fact. Some people here call it ‘probation’—and it is—but it’s also time for you to settle in and learn from your training officer.”

  Any other day, Marie would have laughed at him. She’d have made fun of his firm-but-fair, camp-counselor tone, as if she were a fat kid sent to the mountains for sit-ups and fresh vegetables. She’d have made fun of how he looked, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup even as he spoke. She’d been thrown out of SLATS the day before. She’d cried when she read the teletype. And she was glad she was home when she held the paper in her shaking hands. Ed had driven to Yonkers to tell her, to show her. She was so grateful to him for so many things, but that last act as partner sustained her in the days that followed. To bear bad news in person was what a partner did. When Ed arrived at her door, it felt as if he were informing her of her own death. Today, it didn’t feel much different. Almost all of the Burglary Squad people—Macken included, but not Ed and Al—had been sent back to their commands. For Marie to rejoin Macken without her partners would have been more than she could have endured, but she was still in a daze when she showed up for work at the Pickpocket and Confidence Squad.

  “All right, Sarge, but I’ve made dozens of pick collars—jostlers, seat tippers, moll buzzers. With con games, I’ve done Gypsy cases, pocketbook drops, Murphies, jewelry swaps. What else? Three months’ probation is more than I need, but . . . well, I guess everybody has more to learn. So, who am I working with? What’s his name?”

  The lieutenant stopped to think, maybe. “It’s no ‘him.’ Men don’t work with ladies here. The teams are separate. But don’t worry, you’re assigned to Marilyn Bering. She’s a first-grade detective. You really couldn’t ask for any better teacher.”

  Marie hesitated. “You know, Sarge, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, but last fall, there was an election with the Policewomen’s Endowment Association, and I ran against her and won. I don’t really know her, and I don’t have anything against her, but maybe, you know, it isn’t really the right match—”

  “Huh, that’s funny. But there can’t be any hard feelings, cause she asked for you to be assigned to her. Insisted on it! I’m sure she’s forgotten all about the election. Maybe if she says you’re up to snuff, we can shave a little time off your probation. We’ll see what she thinks.”

  Soon enough, it became clear that Marilyn was counting on making a slew of easy arrests for the next three months, with her partner doing all the labor. Marie suspected that her probation might be extended. The term “rented mule” occurred to her, although the pace of their labor was less than backbreaking—at least twice a week, Marilyn frequented steak-houses for lunch. She liked Sparks for the porterhouse, Keens for the mutton chop, and she always washed them down with a cocktail or three. While the check never came, and Marie never had anything stronger than ginger ale, the tip on a free meal was more than she’d spend on an honest plate of spaghetti. Finances had become a concern since the separation. She couldn’t afford the cost of the high life, and she couldn’t stand the company. After two weeks, she resolved to sit down with Lt. Horvath and tell him that she wouldn’t work with Detective Bering another day.

  It was Sid who came to her rescue, so to speak. He arranged for her transfer from Pickpocket, much as he had with Safe, Loft, and Truck, though by different means. At the beginning of February, he’d called to tell her that he was going to Florida on vacation for two weeks. She’d moved back home and changed the locks. February turned to March, and she’d dared to delude herself that the matter might be resolved in an adult manner. After all, if he thought she was cheating on him, why would he want her back? Instead, the shoe hadn’t dropped because the tailor hadn’t finished—Sid had promised Macken a custom-made suit to sabotage her career. If she ever ran into Macken again, Marie resolved to tell him—among other things—that he could have held out for a new car. While his opinion ordinarily carried no weight with the captain and the inspector, they’d paid attention when he told them of the separation and more. She was having affairs with any number of men, he’d said. She was even carrying on with a young English girl who lived with her, pretending to be the nanny.

  In a squad where divorce was scandalous, tales of foreign lesbianism would have made Ethel Rosenberg more welcome than Marie. Mrs. Rosenberg might have been a traitor, but she wasn’t a tramp. The transfers back to the burglary squads, which had been awaiting signatures for months, went into immediate effect. Ed told her that the bosses didn’t believe the stories, exactly, but they couldn’t bear to think about them. She was driven out like an unclean spirit.

  Marie had prepared for retaliation. She had been confiding in a police chaplain. Not a priest, but a Protestant, Reverend William Kaladjian, who had a pretty little church on Bainbridge Avenue, in the Bronx, that Katie had joined. Reverend Bill was a gruff, practical man who told Marie she should divorce Sid for her children’s sake, if not her own. When Sid heard she’d been talking to Kaladjian, he demanded equal time, and he went to Bainbridge Avenue for a sit-down. Once he’d made his case to Reverend Bill, the chaplain called Marie. “You have to report this, dear. You have to protect yourself. You have to report this to the Medical Bureau. He needs psychiatric help.”

  “I’m sorry, Padre, I really am. I’m glad you saw through him, he’s such a charmer, such a liar, that he’s got everybody fooled. He—”

  “No, Marie, he was pretty honest, I think. He told me that if you didn’t take him back, he’d shoot you dead in the street like a dog.”

  Because she’d heard so many worse things, she wasn’t as scared as she might have been. As she should have been. Until now, he’d kept his threats behind closed doors. For him to threaten to kill her in public, to a department chaplain, should have deafened her from all the ringing alarms. But false hopes and foolish excuses were part of her metabolism. She was like a coal miner who didn’t understand why the cough didn’t go away, even after quitting cigarettes.

  It was Friday night when the cop from Sid’s precinct called. She never caught his name. “Hey, uh, is this Marie?”

  “Yes. How can I—”

  “I work with Sid. He’s on his way home. He’s pretty heated. Said he’s gonna rape you, then he’s gonna break your legs. I couldn’t have it on my conscience, if—”

  “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  Marie hung up the phone. She would have thanked him, if there was time. Couldn’t he have called a little sooner? What had set Sid off? Had his sergeant yelled at him for something, or did he have an argument with Carmen? It didn’t matter.

  There was no time to think. A parade of sorry possibilities passed through her mind. She could get her gun. She could run away. She could call the cops. She could tell Sandy and Katie to grab the baby and go out the back door. Instead, she walked around the first floor of the house and turned off the lights, except for one standing lamp beside the armchair, in the front room. She sat down and waited. Did she pray? Maybe. Not really. She didn’t really pray any more than she thought about getting the gun, or calling the cops. She would stay where she was. Whatever was going to happen would happen. She couldn’t win the fight by fighting, not against him. She was so tired she could have fallen asleep.

  A key scratched in the door. When it didn’t fit, there was a kick, and a kick, and another. And then one of the wooden panels at shoulder-level splintered, and a hand reached inside to turn the knob. Sid bellowed, “I’ll kill you, you goddamn bitch!”

  Marie leapt up from the chair. She was shocked, but not by the threat. There was fear in his voice; she could hear it even if he couldn’t. She would never not fight back again. She was at the door before he was inside, and the standing lamp was in her hands. She smashed it over his head, and then she gouged
his shoulder with the bronze prongs and broken glass. It didn’t stop him, but it slowed him down. By the time the door was open, she’d picked up an end table and broken it against the side of his head. For a moment, he stood at the threshold, astonished and hurt. She read his thoughts: How could she do this to me? He picked a shard of glass from the shoulder of his suit. And then he looked at her as if he’d never really seen her before. He seemed impressed.

  Marie was so afraid he’d smile that she spit in his face. She knew how he’d react. Every blow of his hit like a sledgehammer, and every one of hers landed like the slap of a wet rag. She didn’t care. It hurt like hell.

  Marie must have been screaming, but she couldn’t hear herself. At some point, Katie and Sandy came down from the second floor. Sid hit her in the face, again and again. She heard the weirdly zippery sound of a handful of hair being torn from her head. The sirens came sooner than expected. Cops rushed in and pulled Sid away. When she leaned over and tried to get up, her hand slipped in the pooled blood. Something stuck in her cheek when her face hit the floor. It was like a thumbtack. When she sat up, she plucked it from her skin. Like a thorn, she thought, but it was April, too early for roses. When she wiped her eyes, she saw that it was a tooth.

  A man touched her shoulder. He sounded nice enough. “Do you want to press charges, Miss?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “I think you really should, Miss.”

  “All right.”

  Marie had no reason to be anything but miserable, but she almost smiled in the ambulance. She would have, even with a mouth full of blood, until she traced the jagged edges of her broken teeth with her tongue. No, no smiling for a while. But she didn’t feel as bad as she might have, as she should have, because she knew Sid would never touch her again. She wouldn’t let Sandy or Katie go with her to the hospital. One of them had to stay with the baby, and they needed each other more than Marie needed them right now. She told them to call one of her sisters to meet her at St. Joseph’s. Once she had her first injection for the pain, she passed the time guessing which one would be summoned. Dee? No, she was a cop. Best to keep the cops out of it, though Marie had been plenty happy to see the boys from Yonkers. Vera? No, she’d imposed on her enough already. Ann was the best choice, all around. When Ann arrived in the emergency room, Marie bawled until she got another injection.