“He was worried about his family,” McDermott said. “He leaves a wife and nine children.”
“And none of them old enough to go to work,” Donofrio put in.
“I didn't know he had nine children,” Heeley said. “I didn't know much about him. He never had much to say.”
“I'll tell you about him,” McDermott said, looking at the squadmen. And Corey thought,
sure, he's looking at them but he's saying it to me.
McDermott went on, “He was forty-four years old. His full name was Leonard Ward Ferguson. At seventeen he got into the navy. Got married when he was eighteen. In the Pacific he was in the thick of it and came out with dizzy spells from head wounds and also a peptic ulcer from anxiety. He was on three cruisers and they all got torpedoed. One time he was on a raft for eleven days. The war's over; he gets a job driving a truck and one night he goes through a guard rail on the turnpike. They had him in the hospital almost a year. The first six months they didn't think he'd make it. Both legs busted, compound, and he was knocked all outta joint inside. Comes outta the hospital and can't get a job, but he's got an uncle with pull, and the uncle gets him on the force. That was in 1947. In 1949 he was in the hospital again, two bullets in his chest. From some thugs knocking over a warehouse. He got the thugs. He got all four of them; with his gun he got three and with two slugs in the chest, he got the fourth using his hands around the man's throat. Again in the hospital they didn't think he'd make it. A couple months later he's outta the hospital, and then some time later, around 1952, he's in the hospital again. This time it's a bullet in the back and very close to the spine. But he got the people he was after. He was alone when it happened. He spotted thugs running out of a taproom where they'd just finished shooting the bartender and two customers. Again it was three, and he went after them, shot it out and got them all. In 1954 he was kicked off the force. They kicked him off while he was in the hospital. He was in the hospital with a busted collarbone, his left arm busted, two bullets in his thigh and a bullet in his ribs and another bullet in his neck. Again it happened when he was alone. Seven hoodlums used blackjacks and brass knuckles on two old people who'd just closed up their candy store for the night. The woman was over seventy, the man was close to eighty. The hoodlums were beating them to a pulp, already had their money but kept on beating them. The couple begged for mercy and when Ferguson came running in, one of the hoodlums pulled a gun and shot him in the thigh. He stayed on his feet just long enough to get behind a parked car. They move in to finish him and he goes for his gun. He gets one of them. The others take off. Ferguson comes out from behind the car, but his leg won't hold up and he's on his knees. The hoodlums come back, they figure he's just about done, and they'll have some fun with him before he goes. So then it's another hoodlum dead and this time they really take off. A few minutes later the police cars arrive and Ferguson gets taken to the hospital, along with the old couple. Incidentally, that old couple, they're alive to this day, they still got that candy store.”
“But here's why Ferguson was kicked off the force. In the hospital two suspects were brought in to be identified as members of that hoodlum group. The old couple weren't sure, or were afraid, so it's up to Ferguson. He looks at the two suspects and says yes. And the assistant D.A. says, 'You sure?' and Ferguson keeps saying yes. The assistant D.A. takes out a notebook and right there in front of the suspects, and with reporters there, mind you, he starts reading off a list of Ferguson's various injuries dating all the way back to the war. He says to Ferguson, 'Lemme ask you something. You still suffer from dizzy spells?' Ferguson makes a grab for the water pitcher on the table next to the bed and then he uses it like a hammer. The assistant D.A. gets a concussion. The two suspects were released and Ferguson was suspended, listed mentally unqualified. He's out of work for more than a year; then one day he comes in to see me. He wants to know if I can pull some strings and get him on the Night Squad.”
“That was when?” from Heeley.
“That was late in 1955,” McDermott said. Then he looked at Corey Bradford. “You getting all this?”
Corey didn't answer.
McDermott continued to look at him. “I wantcha to listen real careful now. In the five years Leonard Ward Ferguson was a member of this here Night Squad, he was carted to the hospital at least once each year. It was always injuries. It was stab wounds or bullet wounds or getting bopped on the head with a tire chain or something. Add that to all them other times he was in the hospital and you wonder how come he could take all that.”
“He was made to take it,” Donofrio said.
“That's one thing,” McDermott agreed. “He was just made that way. The other thing is, he hadda take it. He was on assignment, and there's always that risk to be considered. But what he got tonight, he didn't hafta get. What he got tonight was my fault.”
“It wasn't your fault,” Heeley said.
“Now look, you shut the hell up,” McDermott told Heeley. “I'm saying it was my fault. It was my fault because I made a serious error in judgment. I put trust where it didn't belong.”
Corey winced.
McDermott got up from the desk chair. His eyes were wet. He said to Corey, “That's just about how it stacks. I trusted you and you did him in.”
Corey mumbled, “I did what?”
“You did him in,” McDermott said. Then something happened to his face, his mouth wide open, the corners stretched so that his teeth showed, his eyes glimmering, berserk. For an instant it seemed he would lunge at Corey. But then he turned away, leaning low over the desk with his hands gripping the edge of the desktop.
Corey looked at the five squadmen. They stood motionless, their faces expressionless.
McDermott leaned lower over the desk, then made a staggering move toward the desk chair. He sagged into the chair. He put his hands to his face, rubbed up and down, placed his hands on his chest and gazed up at the ceiling. He said, “All right, I'm ready now. I'm ready to hear it.”
“Hear what?” Corey asked.
The detective-sergeant gazed at the ceiling.
Corey said, “There ain't nothing I can tell you. How can I tell you anything? I got no idea what this is all about.”
It was quiet for some moments. Then Donofrio moved away from the other squadmen, came close to Corey and said, “Tell him what he wants to hear.”
Corey remained quiet. Donofrio put his hand on the back of Corey's neck and applied a slight pressure.
“Take your hand off me,” Corey said.
Donofrio increased the pressure. A current of pain caused Corey's mouth to tighten. “Tell him,” Donofrio said. “You gonna tell him?”
There was more pressure, and considerably more pain. Donofrio's thumb pressed hard at a vein and Corey let out a slight groan. Then he smiled lazily. He didn't look at Donofrio. He brought up his elbow, it was a projectile coming up very fast and making contact with Donofrio's jaw. Donofrio's hand fell away from Corey's neck. The tall sad-faced Italian took three backward steps going toward the desk, his knees starting to give way. He reached back and held onto the desk to keep himself from going to the floor. His eyes were closed and he was shaking his head to get rid of the fog. While that was happening, nobody moved. Nobody made a sound. Donofrio opened his eyes and looked at Corey.
“You better not,” Corey said softly through the lazy smile. Donofrio straightened to his full height of six feet one inch, mobilized all the power that amounted in weight to more than a hundred and ninety pounds, then walked toward Corey. “All right, then,” Corey said, and slipped away from a right hand aimed at his head. Donofrio moved in rhythm with Corey's maneuver and was already hooking with the left as Corey started a counter to his head. Corey landed and Donofrio landed and they both fell back. Donofrio's hook had connected with Corey's side just under the ribs. Some blood came from Donofrio's mouth where Corey's right hand had loosened a few front teeth. Now Donofrio walked in again. Corey was bent over with his right hand pressed to his side and his left out, jabbing. Donofrio chopped at the left, bringing it down, then hammered his right hand to Corey's head. Corey went to the floor.
Donofrio kicked Corey in the ribs, then aimed a kick at his head. Corey managed to roll away. Donofrio started another kick but McDermott got up from the desk and grabbed Donofrio who kept trying to kick at Corey's head. Donofrio got away from the detective-sergeant and took hold of a chair, raising it high with the intention of cracking Corey's skull. The other squadmen rushed in. Two of them hit Donofrio low, at the knees. The other two got him around the middle and at the shoulders. They were taking him to the floor, but he was maniacal at this moment and broke away from them. He still held the chair with one hand. Again he raised it as he ran for Corey, who was trying to get up from the floor. McDermott got between them, put a bear hug on the Italian and kept squeezing. Donofrio's head went back, his mouth opened wide, his arms limp and his knees buckling. McDermott kept squeezing. Donofrio's eyes rolled and he was losing consciousness. The detective-sergeant slackened his hold. Donofrio made a wheezing sound as he took in air. The chair was overturned on the floor and Donofrio gave it a sad look. Then McDermott let go of him and Donofrio collapsed on the floor beside the chair. He was semiconscious, making wheezing noises, resting on his side with his knees close to his middle. His hands were clutching his middle.
Corey stood near the window. He was rubbing the side of his head. Then he put his hand against his ribs where he'd been kicked. He grunted and leaned back against the windowsill. McDermott went back to the desk and sat down. Donofrio remained on the floor. The other squadmen were grouped around him, ready to stop him in case he got up and made another try for Corey.
McDermott looked at Corey and said, “You hurt?”
“Sure I'm hurt. He damn near busted my ribs.”
“Lemme get up,” Donofrio said.
The four squadmen stepped closer to Donofrio as he tried to lift himself from the floor. He made it to his knees and Heeley put a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.
“Please lemme get up,” Donofrio wheezed. “Lemme have him one more time. I'll get it out of him.”
“No you won't,” McDermott told the Italian. “You're gonna let me handle this. You interfere again, I'll take you apart. I mean that.”
Donofrio lowered his head. He shut his eyes tightly and let out another wheeze. Then he was quiet.
Corey said to McDermott, “What is all this? I don't get none of this.”
“You want it explained?” McDermott said mildly.
“I wanna know where I'm at,” Corey said. “I'm beginning to think this is room number five in the Crazy House.”
“This is room 529 in City Hall,” McDermott said. “We got you here for interrogation.”
“Concerning what?”
“You don't know? You really don't know?”
“There's nothing I can tell you, Sergeant. You're gonna hafta tell me.”
“All right,” McDermott said quietly. “What happened, we got a phone call. I'd say around eight-thirty. Or maybe closer to nine. I'm not sure. Anyway, it was nobody we knew. She wouldn't give her name.”
“She?”
“Maybe a he-she, but I don't think so. Anyway, that don't matter. It's only what she said that matters. She said she wanted Night Squad. I tell her to go ahead and she says there's a member of the Night Squad getting shot at in the swamplands just off Sixth and Ingersoll. I tell her to go get her head examined and she says the squadman's name is Corey Bradford and he's outnumbered and if we don't hurry he ain't gonna come outta there alive.”
“That's what she said?”
“That's exactly what she said. Then she hung up. We jump into a car and make it to Sixth and Ingersoll and then we're in the swamplands and we hear the shooting. We move in. We get in closer, we see them. But first they musta seen us, or heard us coming in. It's five of them and they don't wanna know from conversation. All they wanna do is get outta there. We gave them a warning shot and they kept moving. So then we really start shooting and they shoot back. We got two of them. They got Ferguson.”
Corey was looking at the wall behind the desk. He told himself to look directly at the detective-sergeant. He tried, but couldn't do it.
He heard McDermott say, “Them others, they got away. The two that we bumped, one of them was still alive when we reached him. We put some questions to him and he wouldn't open up. Not at first, anyway. So then I hadda lit cigarette and used two fingers to open up his eye and keep it open. I bring the cigarette close to his eye and then closer and a little closer and he says he'll spill. I say to him, 'Who were you going after?' And he says, 'Corey Bradford.' Then I say to him, 'How come?' He says, 'This Bradford, he's been giving us grief. He's been finding out too much and we know it was him who knocked off Macy and Lattimore.' I say, 'You know that Bradford's a policeman? You know he's on the Night Squad?' And the man says, 'If he is, he's on two payrolls.' I say, 'Whaddya mean, two payrolls?' The man says, 'From the City and from Grogan. This Bradford, he works for Walter Grogan.' Then just as I start the next question, the man's eyes bulge and he's gone.”