Immoral Certainty
Authors: Robert K. Tanenbaum
Tags: #Crime, #Espionage, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Mystery Fiction, #Serial Murders, #New York (N.Y.), #Legal, #Detective and Mystery Stories, #Legal stories, #Karp; Butch (Fictitious character), #Ciampi; Marlene (Fictitious character), #Lawyers' spouses
Immoral Certainty
Robert K. Tanenbaum
As always, for those most special,
Patti, Rachael, Roger, and Billy
Contents
A BIOGRAPHY OF ROBERT K. TANENBAUM
O
n a damp spring night in New York City in 197-, Patrolman Russell Slayton and his partner Jim Finney of the 114th Precinct, Queens, observed a man carrying a large plastic trash bag climbing out of a second-story window. They believed that they had probable cause to stop and question the man they suspected was in process of committing a burglary.
Slayton, the senior of the two men, told Finney to pull the patrol car over and stay put, get on the radio and tell the precinct what was going on. He then got out of the car, unbuttoning the retaining strap on his pistol and fixing it so that the butt protruded from the slit in his tunic. He left his nightstick in the car and took instead a six-cell flashlight. This was not the kind of flashlight you buy in the hardware store. It was the kind policemen buy in the special little shops that cater to the law enforcement trade. It was made out of the same quality aluminum alloy used in the skin of an airliner, with a double thickness at the head and an acrylic lens thicker than the bottom of a Coke bottle. Except that it lit up, Slayton’s flashlight would not have been out of place at the battle of Agincourt.
Swinging this flashlight, Slayton walked toward the man, who had by this time descended the fire escape to the street. Ten years on the force and the butterflies were still flapping around in Slayton’s belly.
The man looked around and spotted Slayton and the patrol car. Slayton tensed, but to his amazement, the guy waved cordially, shouldered his trash bag and started to walk away. He even smiled; Slayton could see the flash of his white teeth.
“Hey, you!” Slayton shouted. The guy kept walking. Slayton clicked on his flash and caught the man in its sharp beam.
“Stop right there, fella!” The man turned and pointed inquiringly at his chest, a look of surprise on his face. Slayton thought later that this was the time he should have pulled his gun out, but something about the man’s appearance made him hesitate. He was well-built, fairly tall, good looking, and expensively dressed in a short leather jacket and tailored slacks. His dark hair was carefully barbered, and he appeared relaxed and confident, almost jaunty. And he was white. Slayton, who was black, didn’t actually think of what would happen to him if he were to shoot some rich white dude involved in some suspicious-looking but actually innocent business in this quiet middle-class neighborhood, but he was aware of the consequences at some level of his consciousness.
He therefore did not pull his gun, nor did he shout “Yeah
you,
asshole, you see anybody else on the damn street?,” which was what came first to his mind. Instead he said, “Ah, sir, if you could step over here, I need to ask you a couple of questions.” The guy shrugged and approached Slayton.
“Sure, Officer, what’s the problem?”
“Could I see some identification, please.”
The guy put the trash bag down carefully, reached into his back pocket and brought out a wallet. He handed Slayton a Visa card and a Social Security card made out to James P. Otto.
Slayton examined the cards and handed them back.
“Mr. Otto, could you tell me what you were doing climbing out of that window just now?”
The guy smiled. “Yeah, well, it’s a little embarrassing, Officer. That’s my girlfriend’s place. Ah, she’s married to a guy who’s on the road a lot. Actually, they’re in the middle of breaking up. Well, tonight we were together and he buzzes up from downstairs. He just decided to come home. A panic—unbelievable! She’s got to buzz him in, right? I mean, what else could she do? So, needless to say, I get dressed and go out the window.”
“And what’s in the bag?”
“Oh, that’s my stuff—some shaving stuff, cologne, some clothes. Like I couldn’t leave it there, you know?” He laughed. “Christ, I hope to hell I didn’t forget anything.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Sure, go right ahead.”
Slayton knelt down, opened the bag and shined his light in. He saw several bulky objects wrapped in towels. He pulled on the material, which came away, revealing the dull sheen of an expensive stereo tuner. He reached further into the bag, felt something cold and hauled out a silver sugar bowl. He stood up quickly then, and as he did he saw the knife, glistening, impossibly huge, rushing towards his throat.
Slayton screamed a curse and brought up his left hand to protect himself. He still held the big flashlight and this is what saved his life as the keen blade chopped through the middle joints of his first two fingers, gouged the steel case of the flashlight, and buried itself in the meat of his left shoulder. He went down on one knee bellowing for Finney. The pain from his hand was staggering; it made him sick and weak. He fought the sickness and jammed his injured hand into his armpit to staunch the gush of blood. Everything was slowing down. He heard a car door open and a shout and running feet. He felt a blow against his back and a flood of warmth on his skin there. He went down on his face as he struggled to pull his gun from its holster. Breathing hurt. His cheek touched the damp pavement and he fainted.
Finney was out of the car the instant he saw Slayton go down, without pausing to call for backup. The man was ten yards ahead of him when he passed Slayton’s prostrate form, but by the end of the block he had narrowed it to five. Finney held his own six-cell flashlight in his right hand as he ran, like the baton of a relay racer, which, a scant four years ago he had in fact been at Richmond Hill High School, and on a citywide championship squad at that. He was still in pretty good shape.
The two of them crossed the deserted intersection about six feet apart. The fleeing man snapped a look over his shoulder. Finney saw his eyes widen in surprise. The man put on a burst of speed and cut sharply right, as if he were a running back shaking a tackler. This proved to be a serious error, as the cop cut inside, reached out, and clocked the man across the base of the skull with his flashlight.
It was not a heavy blow, but Finney’s flashlight was the same model as Slayton’s and even a tap was enough to throw the man off balance. He caromed into a street sign, stumbled, and then Finney had a hunk of leather jacket in his left hand. The big flashlight came down on the man’s head once, twice. After that, Finney had no trouble handcuffing the man’s wrists together around a lamppost. Then he ran back to see about his partner.
After Slayton was rushed off by ambulance, and after the seven police cars that had responded to the “officer down” call had dispersed, they took the burglar back to the precinct and found, unsurprisingly, that he was not James Otto. His name was Felix M. Tighe, of Jackson Heights, in Queens. A local boy. They checked his name for criminal history, and were mildly surprised to find that he had no record. They booked him for burglary, felonious assault, resisting arrest, and attempted murder. Then they patched his head and put him in a cell.
Patrolman Finney stayed at Queens County Hospital until the surgeon came out and assured him that Slayton would see the dawn. Then he drove back to the 114th to make his report. He filled in his UF 8, the summary arrest card, turned it in, and then looked up the detective who had caught the case.
The detective, a slight, tired-looking man named Howie Frie, was filling out his own form, this one a DD5 situation report. He had already tagged the two major pieces of evidence—the big bloodstained knife and the bag of swag—and sent them to the lab for routine fingerprint and blood-type analysis.
Finney introduced himself as the arresting officer. Frie scowled. “Oh, yeah. How’s your partner?”
“He’ll live. His flash took some of the knife or the fucker would have sliced his head off. I never saw a blade like that before.”
“Yeah, it’s a real, what they call a bowie knife. A reproduction—not cheap either. By the way, he looked like shit when they dragged him in. What’d you do, slap him around a little?”
“Fuck, no! It’s just like it says in the report, man. I pursued the perp and subdued him using necessary force.”
“You hit him a couple with the flash, huh?”
“Nightstick,” answered Finney, unconvincingly.
Frie smiled, “Yeah, stick to that, kid. You don’t want any of that police brutality screwing up the case. Not that it’ll ever get to a jury.”
“It won’t? Why the hell won’t it?”
“Oh, yeah, it could. But probably, his lawyer’ll try to cop, probably to B and E and the assault. Three years max. He’ll be out in a year and a half, he keeps his nose clean. I figure the D.A.’ll take it.”
“What! Why the fuck should he? He practically killed a cop. I’m an eyewitness. We got shitloads of physical evidence. Why should the D.A. give anything away?”
Frie shrugged and finished filling out his form. He scrawled a signature and tossed the report into a wire basket on top of a dozen others.
“Why?” said Finney again. “Slayton could’ve bought it tonight.”
Frie looked at the young patrolman and tried to recall what it felt like to get pissed off because the system stank on ice.
“Yeah, but he didn’t, so your case, instead of being one of half a dozen cop killings, is one of ten thousand burglary and fifty thousand assaults. Ok, it’s a cop, it gets a little more juice, but not much. The main thing is, the mutt got no sheet on him.”
“No?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Finney. He’s a clean motherfucker. Now, that’s not saying he don’t have a juvie sheet twelve feet long, maybe he’s Charles Manson Junior, but age eighteen they wipe it, and he gets a clean start. So figure, all’s he got to do is stay out of trouble for—how old is he?—twenty-eight, there, figure ten years. Our clearance rate on burglaries is about right to catch a professional burglar about once every ten years. But I doubt he’s a real pro.”
“No? How come?”
“No tools. Pulling a boner like coming down a street ladder instead of going out through the building. Knifing a cop. All kid stunts, junkie bullshit, and he ain’t no junkie. No, I figure he’s a square, got a little behind on the car payments, maybe he’s into the books on some sports action, could use a couple hundred on the side. So he goes into the den, takes the bowie knife down from the collection on the wall, there. Shit, he figures every shine in town is getting rich, why shouldn’t a nice white boy? Something like that. Good thing he don’t collect Lugers. And you know what proves it?”
“What?”
“He gets in trouble, who does he use his one dime to call? A Queens Boulevard shyster who specializes in springing small-time mutts? Not him. He was a pro he’d have Terry Sullivan’s or Morrie Roth’s number fuckin’ memorized.”