We drove around to the back of the Kelly Brothers Funeral Home in the Bronx. One of the Kellys was there, waiting to take the clothing. He made soft, comforting, meaningless conversation with Kitty while I went into a phone booth and called the office. Tim sounded tense but excited; I tried to sound casual.
“We gotta take a ride back to Queens,” I told her. We drove in silence all the way out to Kew Gardens.
Tim was behind his desk. Ed Quibro sat, straight as a stick, on one of the chairs in front of the desk. He jumped to his feet and, with a sort of sweeping motion, invited Kitty to sit in his chair. She froze him with an insolent smile, slumped into another chair, slid her legs out straight, folded her arms over her body.
“Well,” she asked Tim, “now what?”
Ed Quibro walked around the desk, collected a stack of typed papers. “Mrs. Keeler,” he said in his precise, flat, monotonous voice, “I’m going to give you the typewritten transcription of your statement as given to me on Friday night, April eighteenth, 1975. I ask you now to read it over, carefully, and indicate if you would like at this time to make any corrections in your statement. If this statement is accurate to the best of your knowledge, I am going to ask you to sign your name at the bottom of each page.”
Kitty rubbed her eyes, then said to Quibro, “Go ahead and ask me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said you were going to ask me to sign my name. At the bottom of each page. So go ahead and ask me.” She reached up and snatched the papers from Quibro and said, “Forget it, just forget it.” She reached for a pen from the leather cup of pens and pencils on Tim’s desk. “Where do I sign? The bottom of each page?”
She began flipping through the pages, signing her name without reading any of the endless questions and answers.
“Mrs. Keeler,” Quibro protested, “I must caution you to read over this statement carefully and—”
“All right. You cautioned me.”
Tim came alongside of her. “Mrs. Keeler, it would be wise for you to read what you’re signing.”
She looked up directly at Tim and said tersely, “You want these pages signed? You got them signed.” Deliberately careless, she lifted the corner of the next page and, without even looking, scrawled her name. She stood up, tossed the signed documents across the desk at Quibro. “There. I’d like to be taken home now.”
“There are a few things we have to go over with you, Mrs. Keeler.”
Suddenly wary now, she drew back; seemed to slow herself down. She gave her attention to Quibro, first glancing at me. “Yeah? Like what?”
“There is a question of timing, Mrs. Keeler. Particularly a question as to the time you claim you last saw your sons alive. You see—”
Kitty leaned on the desk, her hands planted firmly, her face jutting toward Quibro’s. “Listen, you, I didn’t
claim
anything. I told you exactly what was what that night. And I signed your goddamn papers. And I’m sick of you and this office. And I’m going home, right now.” She turned to Neary. “We can go back to our apartment now, can’t we?”
There was a strange, significant silence in the room. Kitty looked from one face to another, aware suddenly that no one was meeting her questioning stare. A slow, certain panic began to build; she tried consciously to control it, locking her hands one inside the other, taking deep, silent breaths. Finally she sat down again as though drained totally of energy; covered her eyes with her hand, shook her head.
When she looked up, directly at me, her expression was different from any I’d yet seen: unmasked, yet not revealing anything but a blank, empty exhaustion, appealing to me to take over for her. She had turned to me naturally, as though I was her one ally in the room. I ducked my head down toward my cupped hand, lit a cigarette, then handed it to Kitty. She took it without a word; when Tim began to speak, she forced herself to turn toward him; it seemed an effort for her to concentrate and she seemed uncomprehending, puzzled, too weary to follow what he was saying.
When Tim finished speaking, Quibro extended some papers at her, assured her of the legality of what was happening. Finally it penetrated; the knowledge seemed to give her new energy. She stood up, hands rigid at her sides.
“Wait a minute. Just wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about? Protective custody?
Custody?
What does that mean? Custody? Oh my God, my God,
you’re not going to put me in jail, are you?”
She stumbled back, unaware that she cried out. Her knees buckled and I caught her before she slid to the floor. She hadn’t passed out; it was more like she’d been knocked over by a strong and unexpected wave. She struggled from me as soon as she caught her balance, whirled around, confronted me.
“What are they trying to do to me, Joe?” Her voice was low and furious, but her face looked drained and defeated. Her eyes were dark and shining and staring as though she didn’t trust herself to blink. There was a slight nerve-twitch at the corner of her right eye. The minute she was aware of it, she pressed her fingers against her temple, trying to maintain control. The fingers of her other hand dug into my arm, either for emphasis or because she literally needed to hang on to someone. “What are they trying to do to me?” she demanded a second time.
“It’ll be all right, Kitty,” I said softly; her total focus on me created a peculiar intimacy. It was as though we were totally alone, confiding in each other. Not quite realizing what I said, I told her, “I promise, Kitty. It’ll be all right.”
I
T HAD BEEN DECIDED
not to hold Kitty Keeler in a cell, although technically it was permissible. There was nothing altruistic in the decision: the reasoning was that Keeler might fall apart and have to be hospitalized for hysteria. That would make for sympathetic press coverage; the news people didn’t play favorites—they went in whichever direction made the best headlines.
Since Kitty had been placed in protective custody late Saturday night, it wasn’t until Monday morning that it made the newspapers. All day Sunday, radio newsbreaks gave carefully sketchy details: that Kitty Keeler was being held as a material witness in an undisclosed location.
She was temporarily housed in a motel near Kennedy Airport in a large suite with a policewoman and a few detectives. Tim didn’t want me anywhere around Kitty at this time; he didn’t want her to feel hostile toward me as being part of this whole custody idea. I notified George; not just because I had promised Kitty that I would but because she was entitled to have someone contacted. The first thing George did was fall apart; then he called Sam Catalano, his good friend. Sam Catalano, playing it nice and safe, called me. He didn’t want anyone to think he’d been doing anything sneaky, which of course is just what he had been doing, hanging around George Keeler in his off time. He’d told George to contact a lawyer; that was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?
“Yeah, as long as you didn’t tell him any
particular
lawyer, Sam.” There was a silence. “You didn’t do that, did you Sam?”
“Not exactly.”
“I think you’d better tell me what ‘not exactly’ means.”
Silence. Then, “Well, George didn’t know any lawyer to call, aside from his regular attorney, who doesn’t handle things like this. So ... I told him to call Vince Martucci. He’d know a lawyer.”
When Sam Catalano becomes a friend of the family, he becomes a friend of the family. “That wasn’t too wise of you, Sam. I wouldn’t mention this to anyone; at all.”
Sam’s voice went a little hollow; I knew he was about to wheedle a promise from me that
I
wouldn’t tell anyone; at all; about his advice to George. Before he could, I assured him that we should
both
just forget it.
“Oh, listen, Joe, before I forget. Do you think you were mistaken, in the name of that narcotics cop? You said Steve Werner? I’ve been calling all over and nobody ever heard of him.”
“Who?”
“Steve Werner, Joe. You said he was a narcotics cop and—”
“Must have been two other guys, Sam. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I figured Sam must have been bothering people enough. “Look, Sam, you show up at the Kelly Brothers Funeral Home Monday; stay close to George. He might need a friend.”
I assured Catalano that my suggestion was an official assignment and that I’d cover him with Tim Neary.
There were a couple of guys in the squad office on Sunday morning, none of them working too hard, all of them complaining about how hard they were working. When Tim Neary surprised us by coming to the office at about nine-thirty, newspapers disappeared, containers of coffee were forgotten, typewriters and telephones went into action. Tim browsed around for a couple of minutes, then signaled me into his office.
As he dug through the pile of updated reports on his desk, Tim asked me the same question four times, using about four different lead-ins: Didn’t I think that Kitty Keeler would break? Didn’t I think that the pressure of being held, on top of the circumstantial case, on top of the confirmation of the Scots girl’s statement, would have an effect on her?
“Kelleher is talking about bringing the case to the grand jury, Joe. He feels we should be in pretty good shape, what with the established times of death, Keeler’s statement about when she last saw the boys alive, the telephone calls to Martucci, MacDougal’s statement. On top of Keeler’s known reputation. Jesus, Joe, she runs with some pretty bad guys. Well, Joe, wadda ya think? Think she’ll finally break at the funeral?”
“I think I better take better care of my ulcer.” My right hand went like a magnet to the pain. I took a closer look at Tim’s face, then said, “Look, Tim. I think we’ve got time. I think we haven’t got a very strong
court
case yet. And I think that you agree with me, right?”
Tim got up from his desk and went to the window. He stared at the early Sunday-morning traffic for a while and I went and stared with him.
“This is a bitch of a situation, Joe. That mother fucker up there is really putting the screws in. Jesus, these kids were only murdered four days ago and he’s breathing down my neck like we’ve been on the case for a month. Like we’re supposed to have it all tied up and gift-wrapped before the kids are even in their graves.”
“We’re doing okay, Timmy. Don’t let him get to you. How about us having some breakfast?”
Tim checked with his watch. “I gotta get going down to the Waldorf. My man Schneiderman is one of the speakers at the Columbian Society Communion breakfast.”
“Schneiderman?”
“Old Marvin L. himself.”
“Old Marvin L. himself?”
“Don’t be such a goddamn wiseass, Joe.”
“Oh,
that
old Marvin L. Schneiderman.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck vigorously, stretched his arms like they ached at the elbows, then jabbed at my shoulder. “I’m talking, old buddy, about the next Mayor of the City of New York. Trouble with the son-of-a-bitch is that he never seems to leave any kind of impression wherever he goes. We’ve been making him available for weddings and wakes, Communions and bar mitzvahs, graduation parties and brisses. A man for all ethnics in a city of ethnics.”
“Brisses? What the hell are brisses?”
“A briss, my boy,” Tim explained, “is the kind of ceremony I would like to witness being performed on the gorgeous leader of us all on the top floor. Only, with Jerry, the knife should slip a crucial inch or so.”
“Oh, that kind of ceremony.”
Tim stopped clowning abruptly and said in a deadly serious voice, “Well, what do you think, Joe? The Keeler girl going to crack or what?”
“I don’t know, Tim.” Which was exactly true; I didn’t know. Which wasn’t exactly what Tim wanted to hear; which meant I wasn’t being supportive, the way I’m supposed to be.
“For Christ’s sake, Joe.
She did it.
We all know that, right? Even
you
know she did it.”
“It’s what we’re all assuming.”
“Assuming, hell!”
Tim planted his feet apart, tilted his head to a pugnacious angle which is supposed to assure me he means business now; no more bullshitting; get into line. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly and said softly, “What’s going on, Joe? This little whore getting to you?”
Once years ago, when we were kids, Tim had said something like that to me about a girl he liked who preferred me. With the self-righteousness of youth, I punched him in the mouth and broke the tip off one of his front teeth. Of course, he’d had the tooth fixed years ago, and he did knock me out cold once he’d recovered from my unexpected attack; but I remembered what a release it had been, belting him in the mouth. That was when we were kids; we were supposed to be big boys now. Maybe it’s always kid stuff when you’re around someone you’ve known all your life; Tim is the only guy I regularly feel like punching.
Instead of that, I shook my head slowly and spoke slowly; it was one way of keeping myself and the situation under control. “No one’s getting to me, Tim. I just don’t think we should count on a confession. I think it’s more important
to
build our case on evidence. Without evidence, a confession won’t count for a damn thing.”
“You don’t mind that I would prefer to have a confession, do you? I mean, it isn’t going to bother you too much, is it? That I would very much like to see a signed, sealed and delivered confession from that little bitch?”
“Want me to rubber-hose her, Tim?”
Tim banged into his desk as he whirled past it; he stopped, turned and swiped his hand at the stack of file folders containing squad reports. They fluttered all over his desk and the floor, but Tim didn’t even look back.
We both knew that
I
certainly wasn’t going to pick up after him.
I typed up a short, simple one-page ongoing report of my investigation. I always keep my interim reports very lean and sparse. Then, if I do develop something in the future, everybody thinks I’m some kind of magician. I like to deliver more than I promise instead of the other way around. Which is just one of my many trade secrets.
I read through the growing stack of squad reports, amazed at how many otherwise savvy cops could write such dumb reports: a couple of them seemed to indicate that based on suspicious behavior of the person interviewed there was reason to believe there would be a break in the case in the immediate future. My reports never promise a goddamn thing. I like my surprises to be on the plus side.