Nothing to Report (45 page)

“I really don’t think the car is important,” said Rizzo, “at least not right now. I ha
d
a talk with Lieutenant McShane and I’m going to book Hartmillas a John Doe for now and wait to see what his prints bring back. If he was printe
d
before, we’ll know it.
”


Both Bobby and I knew it was going to be a lengthy process.

Th
e
first step would be Hartmill’sfinger printing in the detective squad office. Thre
e
cards were required for this – a New York City card, a New York state card and finally an FBI card. The information required would have to be typed onto these cards. Detectiv
e
Rizzo would then have to drive into the city and deliver them to the Bureau of Criminal Identification, located in police headquarters.

It was common for the wait at B.C.I. for
Hartmill’sprior arrest records, which were called “rap
”
sheets, to take as long as four to six hours. Whe
n
the results were finally obtained, they would contain a record of Hartmill’sprio
r
arrests and incarcerations from all over the United States.

“Well, Bobby, let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, John. I will, and I’ll let you know if we come up with anything,” said Detectiv
e
Rizzo.

I made my way out of the squad room and back down the stairs to the mai
n
floor, where the lieutenant on the desk called me over.

“
Audenino, Sergeant Knobbetold me about the baby. Do we have any identification on it yet?
”


“Nothing yet, Sir. I was just about to go back on patrol to see what I coul
d
come up with,” I answered.

“Okay. I want you to answer your jobs, though. You need to be available and not ou
t
of service, understand?
”


“Yes, Sir.
”


With that I walked through the front doors an
d
rejoined Frank, who was waiting for me in the RMP where he had been passing the time working on the NY Daily News crossword puzzle. If it had been a typical Sunday morning, we would have had our coffe
e
and donuts, checked our sector for broken glass and past unreporte
d
burglaries. Then we would have settled in somewhere and Frank would have attacked his puzzles before the midday crunch of family disputes and auto accidents
,
which were always in abundance. People in sector Eddie slept late o
n
Sundays, even Easter Sunday, but afternoons were another story. The
y
were always busy.

“Any word over the radio on the missing baby, Frank?
”
I asked.

“Nothing. The radio has been dead.”

Twenty-Seven

Frank put the car in gear and the Chevy V-8 engine strained to tear of
f
down the street. RMP 1095 was one of only four V-8 engines in our precinct’s fleet of cars; all the others were six cylinders. Our baby really flew.

Frank drove down Bay Street and stopped in front of Paul’s Sweet Shop, an old fashioned and small confectionary store with a wide, red counte
r
and a line of old fashioned stools. Paul, the owner, was a local known gambler, or KG. He was one of many KG’s who worked and lived in the confines of the 120
th
precinct, but he made the best egg cream on Staten Island. Some local old timer
s
boasted that Paul made them even better than the ones they had i
n
Brooklyn as young boys. As a KG, Paul’s was off limits to cops whethe
r
they were on or off duty. However, Frank and John frequented the place on Sundays when a lot of other stores were closed in their sector. They realized they could be caught on tape at any time either entering or leaving but they paid for anything they bought and neve
r
stayed in the joint. The place was known to have been bugged on more tha
n
one occasion.

“Do you want anything?
”
asked Frank.

“Two packs of Kent Kings, please,” I answered with a nod.

We both knew what the remainder of the day might have in store for u
s
and they didn’t want to run out of cigarettes. As soon as he made his purchase, Frank came right ou
t
and handed me the pack of Kents and looked at his watch. It was almost 10:30 A.M.

“We have a 1:00 P.M. meal. Do you want to wait until then or do you want t
o
grab a bite now?
”
he asked.

“I’m not really in the mood to eat now.”

“Neither am I, but I have a feeling in my gut that we’re not going to ge
t
a chance later on,” he said.

“Why don’t we give Frankie over in sector C a 10-85 and have
him meet us? This way we’ll have an idea of what’s going on,” I suggested.

“Good idea.
”


With that, Frank drove over to Vanderbilt Avenue and Bay Street which wa
s
the dividing line between sector E and sector C. He parked in an old
,
abandoned gas station on the corner then plucked the radio handset out of its cradle and spoke softly into it.

“Frankie, B&V,” he said softly, bypassing the radio dispatcher.

“10-4,” Frankie acknowledged.

Most adjoining sectors had codes for meeting locations because they didn’t want the brass or shoo flies to know what they were up to. Frank also didn’t wan
t
Sergeant Knobbe snooping around. He didn’t need the ballless fuck, today of all days.

After a few moments, Frankie Catalano and Willie Folder pulled up and parked parallel alongside our RMP.

“We heard that the baby died. Tough break, guys,” said Willie sympathetically.

“Yeah, have you guys heard anything yet out here?
”
asked Frank.

“Nah, it’s dead as a doornail. People are either in church or ar
e
sleeping in,” answered Frankie.

Since Hartmill had been caught walking, we reasoned that the baby had to be local. Frank and I had first seen Hartmill at 8:00 A.M. and it was now almost 11:00 A.M. Although nearly three hours had passed since we’d found the heartless man lugging the innocent child over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, no one had reported a missing infant.

Both of our teams began coming up with our ow
n
theories as we talked about the case. Maybe Hartmill had driven with the baby from another state, which would explain why no one on Staten Island had reported a missing baby? If this was the case then where was the car? We also considered the possibility that Hartmill may have also kidnapped the infant’s mother, which would explain why there was not yet a report of a missing baby. Hartmill was a drifter and we all knew he was aware of the legal system.

There were a few flop houses in the 120
th
and one fleabag hotel. Ther
e
were also a few welfare motels but, judging by the dates on the tickets found in Hartmill’spockets, he would not have had enough time t
o
qualify for any kind of state assistance.

Frankie, Willie, Frank and I decided to work in tandem and check out the flop houses i
n
our respective sectors. We then agreed to meet back at this same location i
n
one hour. Frank and I took the Saint George Hotel and some daily/weekl
y
flop houses right around the corner from the Saint George on Central Avenue, while Frankie and Willie would check out a Salvation Army Center on Clove Road near the Grasmere Train Station, which took in transient
s
who were down and out.

The Salvation Army Center was a huge, white stucco building and had been in operation for many years. The only requiremen
t
to stay there was sobriety and if you were caught drinking or drunk, you were ejected immediately. If you had any money, it wa
s
suggested that you donate part of it towards your room and board. If yo
u
didn’t, the staff would allow you to do odd job
s
in lieu of your room and board.

Frankie pulled up in front of the stucco building and Willie ran inside. Two minutes later he emerged, shaking his head.

“No one has checked in for a least a week. The last person was a southerner who left last Sunday,” he said. He hadn’t checked to see if there had been any female boarders because this particular center housed only males.

Frank and I, who were checking out the flops in our sector, didn’t have any luck either. Both sectors returned to Bay Street and Vanderbil
t
Avenue at noon.

It was amazing to us that no one had called the local precinc
t
or 911. A dead baby lay in the refrigerated vault of Saint Vincent’s Hospital with no name and no one coming forward. Surely this child of God would wind up with more than the kind thought
s
of a middle class police officer who was willing to give it a Christia
n
burial and a tombstone. Its existence and death needed to hav
e
more meaning than a simple end to life.

Was that all there was to life? Simple extinction? Was there any purpose to life at all? Could there be something beyond the clouded veil?

I knew all too well that cynicism was a cop’s worst enemy. To see life’s worst on a daily basis broke down a cop‘s vision of joy, happiness and hope. People suffer every day in ways that the vast
majority of the public d
o
not see and are never made aware of. It is not the cop’s fault that people suffer. It is not their fault when society does not provide remedies for their suffering or fails t
o
rescue its own.

What does a cop do when he finishes his tour of duty and still has th
e
freshly imbedded vision in his mind of a two-month old baby who has jus
t
gasped its last breath? What does a cop do when he awakens at nigh
t
and sees in his mind the battle scars of a three-year old who has been physically abused for the past two years of its life? How much can one man cry? Should he start drinking to forget? Should he transfer those suppressed feelings onto his own family or maybe onto other member
s
of the community to which he serves? Should he try to forget them o
r
force them deeper into his own mind?

I didn’t seek solace in drinking. I also didn’t want to grapple with the existence of God and life, at leas
t
not at that moment.

Lt. A. was in no hurry to finish his story of Hartmill and the baby.

“Lou, if you don’t want to finish it now, I understand,” Charlie said.

It was obvious that Lt. A. was reliving his feelings of helplessness while telling the story of that fatefu
l
day. Charlie could see the frustration in the lieutenant’s body language as he wrenched his hands and clenched his fists. The lieutenant was also chain smoking at this point.

He glanced at Charlie as he took out another Vantage regular and lit it up.

“Lou, I thought you said you smoked Kent Kings when you worked with Frank?
”
asked Charlie.

“Oh, I did. Frank and I both quit smoking at the same time, years later. I had quit for twelve years but when I got promoted to lieutenant the
y
transferred me to the police communication division and I started smokin
g
again my first day there. The only brand available in the cigarette machine o
n
the ninth floor, other than menthols, was Vantage regulars. That’s how I got hooked on them.”

He took a drag of his newly lit cigarette then continued telling Charlie about the
Hartmill case.

The two teams had completed their canvass of the flops and flea bag spot
s
in their sectors, and neither of them wanted to run the risk of driving all the way out to Mariner’s Harbor to check out the last flea bag joint. If
a
job came up they wouldn’t be able to respond as quickly as they would have liked. Of course there were other transient hotels but they were in the confines of the 122
nd
precinct. Both sectors decided to resume patrol an
d
put the problem into God’s hands; God and Detective Rizzo’s.