Cop Hater (15 page)

"Listen," Bronckin said, "you don't have to call them. Those were the pictures, all right."

"What were you doing Monday night?"

"I... I went to a movie."

"Another movie? Two nights in a row?"

"Yeah. The movies are air-conditioned. It's better than hanging around and suffocating, ain't it?"

"What'd you see?"

"Some more old ones."

"You like old movies, don't you?"

"I don't care about the picture. I was only tryin' to beat the heat. The places showing old movies are cheaper."

"What were the pictures?"

"Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and Violent Saturday."

"You remember those all right, do you?"

"Sure, it was more recent."

"Why'd you say you couldn't remember what you did Monday night?"

"I said that?"

"Yes."

"Well, I had to think."

"What movie house was this?"

"On Monday night, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"One of the RKO's. The one on North 80th."

Bush put the receiver back into its cradle. "Checks out, Steve," he said. "Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Body and Soul. Like he said." Bush didn't mention that he'd also taken down a timetable for the theatre, or that he knew exactly what times each picture started and ended. He nodded briefly at Carella, passing on the information.

"What time did you go in?"

"Sunday or Monday?"

"Sunday."

"About 8:30."

"Exactly 8:30?"

"Who remembers exactly? It was getting hot, so I went into The Strand."

"What makes you think it was 8:30?"

"I don't know. It was about that time."

"What time did you leave?"

"About—musta been about a quarter to twelve."

"Where'd you go then?"
                
                                   
I

"For some coffee and."

"Where?"

"The White Tower."

"How long did you stay?"

"Half-hour, I guess."

"What'd you eat?"

"I told you. Coffee and."

"Coffee and
what?"

"Jesus, a jelly donut," Bronckin said.

"This took you a half-hour?"

"I had a cigarette while I was there."

"Meet anybody you know there?"

"No."

"At the movie?"

"No."

"And you didn't have the gun with you, that right?"

"I don't think I did."

"Do you usually carry it around?"

"Sometimes."

"You ever been in trouble with the Law?"

"Yeah."

"Spell it."

"I served two at" Sing Sing."

"What for?"

"Assault with a deadly weapon."

"What was the weapon?" Bronckin hesitated.

"I'm listening," Carella said.

"A .45."

"This one?"

"No."

"Which?"

"Another one I had."

"Have you still got it?" Again, Bronckin hesitated. "Have you still got it?"

Carella repeated. "Yes."

"How come? Didn't the police ..."

"I ditched the gun. They never found it A friend of mine picked it up for me."

"Did you use the business end?"

"No. The butt."

"On who?"

"What difference does it make?"

"I want to know. Who?"

"A... a lady."

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"How old?"

"Forty. Fifty."

"Which?"

"Fifty."

"You're a nice guy."

"Yeah," Bronckin said.

"Who collared you? Which precinct?"

"Ninety-second, I think."

"Was it?"

"Yes."

"Who were the cops?"

"I don't know."

"The ones who made the arrest, I mean."

"There was only one."

"A dick?"

"No."

"When was this?" Bush asked.

"Fifty-two."

"Where's that other .45?"

"Back at my room."

"Where?"

"831 Haven."

Carella jotted down the address. "What else have you got there?"

"You guys going to help me?"

"What help do you need?"

"Well, I keep a few guns."

"How many?"

"Six," Bronckin said.

"What?"

"Yeah."

"Name them."

"The two .45's. Then there's a Luger, and a Mauser, and I even got a Tokarev."

"What else?" "Oh, just a .22."

"All in your room?"

"Yeah, it's quite a collection."

"Your shoes there, too?"

"Yeah. What's with my shoes?"

"No permits for any of these guns, huh?"

"No. Slipped my mind."

"I'll bet. Hank, call the Ninety-second. Find out who collared Bronckin in '52. I think Foster started at our house, but Reardon may have been a transfer."

"Oh," Bronckin said suddenly.

"What?"

"That's what this is all about, huh? Those two cops."

"Yes."

"You're 'way off," Bronckin said.

"Maybe. What time'd you get out of that RKO?"

"About the same. Eleven-thirty, twelve."

"The other one check, Hank?"

"Yep."

"Better call the RKO on North 80th and check this one, too. You can go now, Bronckin. Your escort's in the hall."

"Hey," Bronckin said, "how about a break? I helped you, didn't I? How about a break?"

Carella blew his nose.

None of the shoes in Bronckin's apartment owned heels even faintly resembling the heel-print cast the Lab boys had.

Ballistics reported that neither of the .45's in Bronckin's possession could have fired any of the fatal bullets.

The 92nd Precinct reported that neither Michael Reardon or David Foster had ever worked there.

There was only one thing the investigators could bank on.
 
The heat.

Chapter FIFTEEN

at seven twenty-six
that Thursday night, the city looked skyward.

The city had heard a sound, and it paused to identify the sound. The sound was the roll of distant thunder.

And it seemed, simultaneously, as if a sudden breeze sprang up from the North and washed the blistering face of the city. The ominous rolling in the sky grew closer, and now there were lightning flashes, erratic, jagged streaks that knifed the sky.

The people of the city turned their faces upward and waited.

It seemed the rain would never come. The lightning was wild in its fury, lashing the tall buildings, arcing over the horizon. The thunder answered the spitting angers of the lightning, booming its own furious epithets.

And then, suddenly, the sky split open and the rain poured down. Huge drops, and they pelted the sidewalks and the gutters and the streets; and the asphalt and concrete sizzled when the first drops fell; and the citizens of the city smiled and watched the rain, watched the huge drops— God, how big the drops were!—splattering against the ground. And the smiles broadened, and people slapped each other on the back, and it looked as if everything was going to be all right again.

Until the rain stopped.

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. It had burst from the sky like water that had broken through a dam. It rained for four minutes and thirty-six seconds. And then, as though someone had suddenly plugged the broken wall of the dam, it stopped.

The lightning still flashed across the sky, and the thunder Still growled in response, but there was no rain.

The cool relief the rain had brought lasted no more than ten minutes. At the end of that time, the streets were baking again, and the citizens were swearing and mumbling and sweating.

Nobody likes practical jokes.

Even when God is playing them.

She stood by the window when the rain stopped.

She swore mentally, and she reminded herself that she would have to teach Steve sign language, so that he'd know when she was swearing. He had promised to come tonight, and the promise filled her now, and she wondered what she should wear for him.

"Nothing" was probably the best answer. She was pleased with her joke. She must remember it. To tell to him when he came.

The street was suddenly very sad. The rain had brought gaiety, but now the rain was gone, and there was only the solemn grey of the street, as solemn as death.

Death.

Two dead, two men he worked with and knew well, why couldn't he have been a streetcleaner or a flagpole sitter or something, why a policeman, why a cop?

She turned to look at the clock, wondering what time it was, wondering how long it would be before he came, how long it would be before she spotted the slow, back-and-forth twisting of the knob, before she rushed to the door to open it for him. The clock was no comfort. It would be hours yet. If he came, of course. If nothing else happened, something to keep him at the station house, another killing, another ...

No, I mustn't think of that.

It's not fair to Steve to think that.

If I think of harm coming to him...

Nothing will happen to him ... no. Steve is strong, Steve is a good cop, Steve can take care of himself. But Reardon was a good cop, and Foster, and they're dead now, how good can a cop be when he's shot in the back with a .45? How good is any cop against a killer in ambush?

No, don't think these things.

The murders are over now. There will be no more. Foster was the end. It's done. Done.

Steve, hurry.

She sat facing the door, knowing it would be hours yet, but waiting for the knob to turn, waiting for the knob to tell her he was there.

The man rose.

He was in his undershorts. They were gaily patterned, and they fitted him snugly, and he walked from the bed to the dresser with a curiously ducklike motion. He was a tall man, excellently built. He examined his profile in the mirror over the dresser, looked at the clock, sighed heavily, and then went back to the bed.

There was time yet.

He lay and looked at the ceiling, and then he suddenly desired a cigarette. He rose and walked to the dresser again, walking with the strange ducklike waddle which was uncomplimentary to a man of his physique. He lighted the cigarette and then went back to the bed, where he lay puffing and thinking.

He was thinking about the cop he would kill later that night.

Lieutenant Byrnes stopped in to chat with Captain Frick, commanding officer of the precinct, before he checked out that night.

"How's it going?" Frick asked.

Byrnes shrugged. "Looks like we've got the only cool thing in this city."

"Huh?"

"This case."

"Oh. Yeah," Frick said. Frick was tired. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and all this hullabaloo made him tired. If cops got knocked off, those were the breaks. Here today, gone tomorrow. You can't live forever, and you can't take it with you. Find the perpetrator, sure, but don't push a man too hard. You can't push a man too hard in this heat, especially when he's not as young as he used to be, and tired.

To tell the truth, Frick was a tired man even when he was twenty, and Byrnes knew it He didn't particularly care for the captain, but he was a conscientious cop, and a conscientious cop checked with the precinct commander every now and then, even if he felt the commander was an egghead.

"You're really working the boys, aren't you?" Frick asked.

"Yes," Byrnes said, thinking that should have been obvious even to an egghead.

"I figure this for some screwball," Frick said. "Got himself a peeve, figured he'd go out and shoot somebody."

"Why cops?" Byrnes asked.

"Why not? How can you figure what a screwball will do? Probably knocked off Reardon by accident, not even knowing he was a cop. Then saw all the publicity the thing got in the papers, figured it was a good idea, and purposely gunned for another cop."

"How'd he know Foster
was
a cop? Foster was in street clothes, same as Reardon."