Without Mercy (9 page)

Jackie grimaced and slung his burlap bag over his shoulder. Some people won’t let a man live, he thought as he shuffled away. They won’t even let you have their garbage.

Chapter Seven

It was five o’clock in the afternoon four days later on Barrow Street in Greenwich Village, Patrolman Anthony Benelli and Patrolman George Shussler stood at the corner of Seventh Avenue, twirling their billy clubs and having a conversation. Benelli had black hair that covered his ears, and Shussler wore a thick brown mustache.

Walking past the street corner were pretty young girls, local businessmen dressed like hippies, and local characters. Benelli and Shussler looked at them while speculating on the terms of the contract currently under negotiation between the Patrolman’s Benevolent Association and the City.

“We oughta have a clause that guarantees no more layoffs,” Shussler said.

“Yeah,” agreed Benelli, “and they oughta restore the overtime clause we had in our other contract.”

Benelli noticed an old bum searching through trash barrels a short way down Barrow Street. He told Shussler that he thought the Civilian Review Board ought to be done away with.

The bum finished with the trash barrels and stumbled toward the two cops. Benelli’s trained eyes checked him out, noticing the red and black wool jacket too big for him, wondering where he had stolen it from. Then he saw the bloodstain on the sleeve. To an ordinary citizen the bloodstain might look like dried coffee or vomit, but Benelli had seen lots of blood in his professional career and knew what it looked like in its various forms.

“Hey, pick up on the bird in the bloody jacket,” Benelli said.

Shussler focused on the bum. “Looks like somebody must’ve busted the poor fucker in the snoot.”

Benelli wrinkled his forehead. “Wasn’t there something on an APB about a red and black wool jacket?”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “The Slasher’s jacket—But that bummo doesn’t fit the Slasher’s description.”

“The jacket does.” Benelli waited until the bum came closer, then pointed to him and said, “Hey you!”

Jackie Doolan looked at the cop through his old rheumy eyes, then looked around to see if he meant somebody else. “Me?”

“Yeah you. C’mere.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Nobody said you did. C’mere.”

Jackie Doolan huddled in the collar of his jacket and crab-stepped toward the two cops. “I ain’t done nothin’,” he repeated.

“Where’d you get that jacket?” Benelli asked.

Doolan pinched the stained sleeve. “You mean this jacket here?”

“No, I mean that one up there.” Benelli pointed to the sky.

Doolan looked up and squinted. “I don’t see no jacket up there.”

“I’m talking about the one you got on. What’s your name?”

“Jackie Doolan.”

“Where’d you get that jacket, Doolan?”

“This one here?”

“That one there.”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Then where’d you get it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you buy it?”

“Yeah, I bought it. I think.”

“Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Where’d the blood on the sleeve come from?”

“What blood?”

Benelli pointed to the sleeve. “That blood.”

Doolan looked and wrinkled his nose. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah, that’s blood.”

“I don’t know where it came from.”

“How come you bought the jacket too big for you?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t think you bought that jacket, Doolan. I think you stole it. We’re gonna have to take you over to the precinct house.”

Doolan’s eyes darted around frantically. “I didn’t steal it—honest!”

“Then where’d you buy it?”

“I didn’t buy it. I found it.”

“Where?”

“In a garbage can someplace.”

“Whereabouts?”

“I don’t remember.” A bit of saliva oozed out the corner of Doolan’s mouth.

“East side? West side? Uptown? The Village? Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

Benelli looked at Shussler. “We’d better take him to the precinct and let the guys from Midtown North figure out what to do with him.”

Chapter Eight

Rackman drove his unmarked Plymouth into the lot behind the new Sixth Precinct building on West Tenth Street in Greenwich Village. He entered the station house and walked to the sergeant’s desk. “I’m Detective Rackman from Midtown North. I understand you’ve got a suspect for me here.”

“Upstairs in the Detective Division.”

Rackman climbed the stairs and walked down the hall. The Sixth Precinct detectives had private cubicles, and Rackman found the one he wanted. The detective inside looked up, and Rackman recognized Burt Vickers, who’d been a patrolman with him in the Twenty-first Precinct of Brooklyn. They greeted each other noisily and shook hands.

“I just got a call that you’ve got a suspect for me in the Slasher case,” Rackman said.

“He’s not a suspect exactly,” replied Vickers, who had a five o’clock shadow that usually came out around noon. “But he’s wearing a jacket like the one in the APB and it’s got blood on the sleeve. C’mon, I’ll take you to the property room.”

They went downstairs to the basement, and Rackman signed for the jacket. He held it up in the air. “This is a pretty big jacket.” He looked at the collar, and it was a size 46. “Is the guy real big?”

“Naw, he’s a scarecrow and a bum. I’ll show him to you.”

“You charge him with anything?”

“He’s just a material witness so far.”

They walked down the corridor to the cellblock, which had glazed white brick walls and smelled of antiseptic. Vickers got the key from the sergeant on duty and unlocked the cell. Jackie Doolan was lying on a cot with his arm over his eyes. He needed a drink real bad.

“Sit up,” Rackman ordered.

Doolan pushed himself erect and swung his feet onto the floor. He looked at the two detectives and thought how awful it was that a person could be picked up off the street and locked up for nothing.

“What’s your name?” Rackman asked.

“Jackie Doolan.”

Rackman held up the jacket. “Where’d you get this?”

“It’s mine.” Doolan’s lips quivered and snot ran out of his nose.

“I know it’s yours, but where did you get it?”

“I found it.”

“Where?”

“I dunno.”

“You must have some kind of idea.”

“I need a drink.”

“I need to know where you got this jacket.”

“I can’t remember.”

“You’d better think about it if you want to get out of here. I’ll be back to see you in a little while.”

Rackman and Vickers left the cellblock and went upstairs to the main room of the station house. Rackman used the desk sergeant’s phone and called Inspector Jenkins. He told Jenkins he was taking the jacket to the lab to determine whose blood was on it, and requested that someone pick up Doolan and transfer him to Midtown North.

Rackman carried the jacket with the tips of his fingers out to his car and threw it onto the back seat. He drove across town to Broadway and downtown to police headquarters. In the lab, he told a technician that he wanted to know if the blood on the jacket matched the blood of Rene LeDoux. While the tests were taking place, Rackman sat in the waiting room, smoking cigarettes and hoping the blood was Rene LeDoux’s, so he could have a clue to the Slasher’s identity.

An hour later the technician came to the waiting room. “The blood samples match,” he said.

Rackman took the technician’s report and the jacket to Midtown North, stopping first in Jenkins’ office to apprise him of the lab finding.

Jenkins sat behind his desk and toyed with a ballpoint pen, his face betraying no emotion at the news. When Rackman was finished, Jenkins said, “You gotta squeeze that little scumbag until he remembers where he found the jacket.’’

Rackman went down to the basement and told the guard to let him into Doolan’s cell. The guard unlocked the bars and Rackman stepped into the odor of Doolan’s clogged commode. Graffiti and garish drawings covered the walls, and Doolan lay on his cot, quivering and drooling. Rackman leaned over him and shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Doolan. Your country needs you.”

Doolan unsheathed his eyes. “Huh?”

“Get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m sick.”

“I know what you need. A bottle of wine. Am I right or wrong?”

“You’re right.”

“Come with me and I’ll get you one.”

Doolan raised himself on one elbow. “You will?”

“Sure.”

Doolan dragged himself to his feet and ran his fingers through his greasy hair before putting on his old fedora. His breath smelled almost as bad as the commode. “My favorite is muscatel.”

“Then it’s muscatel you’ll have. Come with me.”

Rackman and Doolan walked out of Midtown North and got into Rackman’s unmarked Plymouth. Doolan furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of the weird events that had befallen him during the past few hours, as Rackman drove around the corner to a liquor store on Ninth Avenue. Rackman double-parked in front of the liquor store, helped Doolan out of his seat, and together they approached the door. Dusk was falling on Manhattan, and the store had its neon lights on.

The proprietor of the liquor store wrinkled his nose when he saw Doolan wobble into his establishment. He was about to throw him out but then realized he was in the company of Rackman.

“Where do you keep your wine?” Rackman asked the proprietor, who wore a gray cotton jacket and looked like he should be a teller in a bank.

“Over there,” the proprietor replied, pointing to a section of shelves.

Rackman dragged Doolan to the shelves and pointed to the bottles. “Which one you want, champ?”

Doolan squinted at the bottles and went weak in the knees. “Muscatel.”

“Any particular brand?”

“Just muscatel.”

Rackman took down two pints of a moderately priced domestic muscatel and carried them to the proprietor, whom he paid. Rackman and Doolan went to the car and got in, while the proprietor just watched them through the front window of his store, wondering what their story was.

Rackman stashed the two bottles under his seat and started up the engine.

“Can’t I have some now?” Doolan asked pathetically.

“Wait until we get around the corner.”

With a shudder and a growl, Doolan scrambled toward the bottles under the seat. Rackman picked him up and flung him back in place.

“Stay put over there,” Rackman ordered.

“Please . . .”

“Just hang on a few minutes more.”

Doolan dove under the seat again. Rackman pulled him up and realized he wouldn’t be permitted to drive unless he gave the bum some wine.

“Okay, I’ll give you one of the bottles,” Rackman said, holding Doolan back, “but you’ve got to promise me something.”

“Okay I promise,” Doolan replied quickly, his ears twitching.

“I haven’t even asked you yet.”

“I promise anyways.”

“Oh fuck,” Rackman sighed, exasperated. He reached under the seat and took one of the pints out of the bag. Breaking the seal, he handed the bottle to Doolan, who clawed at it, nearly dropped it, managed to screw off the top, and then stuffed it into his mouth.

Doolan slurped and gurgled as Rackman drove around the corner and parked beside an old warehouse whose windows were boarded up and marked with white Xs. Rackman turned to Doolan, who was looking at the label of the bottle and smiling beatifically.

“How’re you feeling, sport?” Rackman asked.

“Pretty good.”

“Like the wine?”

“Yup.”

“I just did you a favor, right?”

Doolan got confused. “When?”

“By giving you the wine.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right too.”

“Now it’s time for you to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I need to know where you picked up that jacket, Doolan.”

“What jacket?”

Rackman pointed to the red and black wool jacket lying on the back seat. “That jacket.”

“That’s my jacket!” Doolan exclaimed, and proceeded to climb over the seat to get it.

Rackman pulled him back and sat him down again. “I know it’s your jacket, but where did you get it?”

“Are you gonna give it back to me?”

“I need it for evidence.”

“I need it too,” Doolan whined.

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where.”

Rackman snatched the bottle out of his hands. “Where?”

Doolan clawed for the bottle but Rackman pushed him back.

“Make another move for this bottle and I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”

Doolan shouldered into the corner and sulked.

“If you tell me where you got the jacket, I’ll give this back to you.” Rackman jiggled the bottle in the air.

Doolan wiped his running nose with his finger. “I don’t remember where I got it.”

“Was it someplace around the Bowery?”

“I think so.”

“Is that where you hang out?”

“Most of the time.”

“How far away from the Bowery do you get?”

“Pretty far.”

“As far as Times Square?”

“Not that far.”

“How about Thirty-fourth Street?”

“Haven’t been there in years.”

“Fourteenth Street?”

“Very seldom.”

“So you’re mostly in the Bowery vicinity.”

“That’s what I told you before. Don’t you hear too good?”

“Could you have gotten the jacket in Chinatown?”

“Them chinks never throw away nothin’ good.”

“How about Little Italy.”

“I never go into Little Italy unless I have to. The dago kids like to beat up bums.”

“Then you probably got it somewhere in the Village.”

“Why can’t you gimme the jacket back?” Doolan whimpered. “I need a good jacket. It’s still cold out. If you need a jacket you can just go and buy one, but I can’t. I ain’t got no money. I ain’t got no home. I ain’t got nothin’. I’m just a poor old jakey-bum.”

Rackman scratched his nose. “You’re gonna make me cry, Doolan.”

“You oughta cry. The whole world oughta cry. Why can’t I have back my jacket?”