The Striver

by Stephen Solomita

  ‘Me alone, or both of us?’

  ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Damn.’

  Teddy wasn’t fooled. They were going to put him on the stove and set the heat low, see what the stew tasted like when they returned.

  Littlewood grasped Teddy’s arm and guided him into the middle interview room. Teddy had been in similar rooms before and he dropped into the chair behind the little table, the hump seat, without being told.

  ‘Do I get to make a phone call?’ he asked. They’d already confiscated his cell phone.

  Kelly came around the table to handcuff his right wrist to a steel ring attached to the chair. The chair, itself, was bolted to the floor.

  ‘Grow up, jerk,’ she said. ‘This is not the Supreme Court and nobody’s looking. You’re here for as long as we want you.’

  Littlewood flashed a quick smile. ‘You have to forgive my partner. She’s a judgmental sort by nature and she’s decided that she doesn’t like you. In fact, we have a little bet going. You want to know what it is?’

  Say no, Teddy told himself, even as his mouth formed the word yes. The need to discover what the cops had on him was overwhelming. After all, they didn’t have to be investigating the hit on Carlo. It might be anything.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ Littlewood asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK, I think you killed Carlo because he was raping that woman you were looking for in Jackson Heights. I think you played the hero and rescued her. My partner thinks you killed Carlo because he was your rival. She thinks when you came upon Carlo, you saw an opportunity to advance your own interests and you took it. Rescuing Carlo’s victim never crossed your mind.’

  Detective Littlewood dropped a hand to his prisoner’s shoulder. ‘One piece of advice? If you take the case to trial, keep citizens who think like my partner off the jury. You let her on the jury, you’re dead.’

  Some things you can’t fight, like the emotions stirred up by a sudden fall from smug satisfaction with your life to a growing fear about spending the next twenty-five years in a maximum security prison. But fear wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling at the moment. No, just now Teddy felt exactly as he’d felt so many times when his stepfather beat the crap out of him for no good reason other than wanting to hurt someone. The mess he was in right now just felt unfair.

  Meanwhile, some other part of him acknowledged the accuracy of Kelly’s judgment. If it’d been someone else, a stranger, he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. He’d have hurt the man, maybe pistol-whipped him, but not killed him. Probably. But that didn’t change the simple fact that killing was the right punishment for Carlo’s crime. Teddy Winuk had done the world a favor.

  As time went on, Teddy was confronted by another, more basic, consideration. He’d gulped down a mug of coffee before leaving Sanda’s apartment for Kopetnik’s, and another cup at the diner. His need to drain the snake was growing and he was now uncomfortable enough to cross his legs and shift his position.

  Teddy glanced at the mirror next to the door. Was someone looking in, maybe gloating? In his opinion, the cops weren’t all that far removed from a mafia crew. Arresting you wasn’t enough. They had to humiliate you, too. Say by making you ask to use the bathroom, like you were still in Fourth Grade. By making you admit that they were the masters and you were the dog.

  Littlewood and his partner were trying to break him down, but it wasn’t going to work. Teddy felt his resolve stiffen. Let them prove that he killed Carlo. Don’t give them any help. Sanda would provide him with an alibi if he needed one, but it probably wouldn’t go that far.

  As the minutes continued to pile up, Teddy’s thoughts returned to the sense of loss he’d felt when Littlewood first marched him into the precinct. His plans were falling into place, one after another, and the money was pouring in. Only a few hours ago, he’d felt nearly invincible. Now he had to admit that he’d made a big mistake going out to Jackson Heights, a big mistake when he first decided to follow the cop. If he’d only minded his own business, the cops wouldn’t know that he even existed.

  The door popped open to reveal Littlewood’s bowling-ball head. ‘Sorry about the wait, Teddy, but …’

  The door closed before Teddy could protest, leaving him angry again. That was good, that was the attitude he needed to cultivate. Hate them enough to give them nothing. They might slap him around, and they’d definitely bully him, but they wouldn’t beat a confession out of him. Those days were over.

  FORTY-NINE

  Detective Littlewood opened the door and pushed through. He was holding two mugs of coffee in his left hand and some of the hot liquid spilled over the rim and onto his fingers as he came into the room.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said as he laid the mugs on the table, then pushed one in Teddy’s direction. ‘I filled ’em too high.’ He took the chair closest to Teddy, leaving his partner sitting on Teddy’s left. ‘First thing, I’m gonna read you your rights.’

  ‘I know my rights and I don’t want to talk to you without a lawyer present.’

  Ignoring the outburst, Littlewood read a standard Miranda warning from a standard form, one the job printed in lots of five thousand. He laid the form on the table and said, ‘Unlock Teddy’s cuffs, partner, so he can sign the form. And leave ’em off. He doesn’t need to be restrained. Right, Teddy? You’re not gonna try to run away?’

  Teddy didn’t respond to the question, although he sensed, as he signed the form, that Littlewood had offered a deal and he’d accepted. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I have a right to silence and I’m takin’ it.’

  ‘Did anyone ask you to open your mouth?’ Kelly broke in. She had her arms folded over her chest, leaning away from him like he smelled bad.

  ‘My partner’s right, Teddy. I haven’t asked you a single question and I don’t expect to. I’m here to show you. For example, this is the weapon used to kill Carlo. A scuba team fished it out of Newtown Creek about a week ago.’

  Kelly pulled the gun, an H&K P30 chambered for 9mm cartridges, from a paper bag. She laid it on the table in front of her prisoner, then backed away. The serial numbers had been filed off and an evidence tag hung from the trigger guard.

  Teddy stared at the gun for a moment as he waited for his thoughts to settle. On the one hand, the only way the cops could know the make and model of the pistol he used to kill Carlo was if they fished it out of the creek. That part, at least, was true. But the cops still had a long way to go before they tied the gun to him and proved it was used on Carlo. Teddy had snatched up the shell casing before he left the scene, so the most they could prove was that Carlo had been killed by a 9mm handgun. One of millions sold by various manufacturers every year.

  ‘Not impressed?’ Boots asked.

  Teddy shook his head, more in disgust than anything else.

  ‘OK, I know you’re not a fool, so I’m not gonna tell you the gun has your fingerprints on it. Fingerprints on guns are bullshit anyway. In fact, I personally know cops in ballistics who in their entire career never lifted a print from a gun. But DNA? Well, that’s another matter. When you handle a gun, the oil on your hands, along with skin cells, attaches to the grip and the trigger. You’ve probably convinced yourself that sitting on the bottom of Newtown Creek for ten days degraded the DNA to the point where it can’t be tested. But you’d be wrong, Teddy, very wrong.’

  Kelly finished her partner’s thought. ‘Bottom line, we’ve got a warrant and we’re gonna take a DNA swab before you leave.’

  ‘Tell it to my lawyer.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ it to you, Teddy. Fuck your lawyer. Just like I’m tellin’ you that our snitches claim that you had an ongoing dispute with the Pianetta crew. That’s motive, Teddy, which juries appreciate.’

  Teddy tried to convince himself that everything he’d been told was a lie, that cops lie at the drop of a hat, but it wouldn’t wash. The gun did, in fact, belong to him, and he was, in fact, having trouble with the Pianettas. Meanwhile, his bladder was a
bout to explode.

  ‘Why don’t I get the machine?’ Littlewood answered his own question by leaving the room. Now Teddy was alone with Kelly, a deceptively slender woman in a green pants suit. Looking at the two of them, you’d have to conclude that he could kick the crap out of her. Not that he was stupid enough to try.

  ‘I have a question,’ she said, ‘or maybe a couple of questions.’

  ‘Didn’t your partner tell me you weren’t going to ask any questions?’

  ‘He was speaking for himself, Teddy. Now, first question. Did you take stupid pills on the day you decided to conceal a tracking device on my partner’s car? And what did you tell yourself at the time? That we wouldn’t notice you following us? My partner and me, at first we thought you were trying to find the woman who saw you murder Carlo. But that didn’t make sense because you couldn’t have known we were looking for her when you installed the device. No, you had something else in mind. Wanna tell me what it was?’

  Teddy stared into the cop’s eyes. They were a blue so dark it was nearly invisible. And even though her eyes revealed nothing, they hinted of possibilities he didn’t want to consider.

  Kelly broke the silence. ‘You were naive when you convinced yourself that you could shadow us without being spotted. You were an amateur going up against professionals. And you’re being naive here, too. But let me get back to the topic at hand. I think you heard about my partner confronting Johnny Piano in Woodhull Hospital. I think you figured if something happened to my partner, the NYPD would come down on the Pianetta crew like a ton of bricks. I think you were out to kill my partner. That’s not nice, Teddy. And I’m not gonna forget, either.’

  Relief flooded through Teddy when he saw Littlewood’s face appear in the doorway. Talk about intense. Had the bitch threatened him? He didn’t want to think about it and now he wouldn’t have to.

  ‘Showtime, folks.’

  Littlewood pushed a rolling cart topped with a keyboard and a monitor ahead of him as he came through the door. ‘Wi-Fi,’ he said, pointing to the monitor. ‘No cables. I tell ya, Teddy, what with all the technology, it’s a wonder that you criminals get away with anything. There are cameras everywhere now, including the road between the Pulaski Bridge and the Alltel Petroleum Depot. Those cameras, by the way, were fully functional on that Saturday morning when you murdered Carlo.’

  Littlewood shifted the mouse. He was about to click on the play button when he stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, yeah, something else you need to know before we get started. On that Saturday, November fourth, a good citizen reported a shot fired. The citizen was living on Box Street, about two blocks from the bridge, and his call was received by a 911 operator at 7:42. The footage you’re gonna see now begins at 7:44 and runs to 7:49. Take a look, tell me if this is you.’

  A voice in Teddy’s brain commanded him not to look, a voice he was compelled to ignore. His gaze was drawn to the monitor as iron filings are drawn to a magnet. For the next four minutes, he watched a figure, obviously a man, walk the block from Paidge Avenue to Newtown Creek, watched the figure disappear into the shadows, only to appear a moment later and retrace his steps to Paidge Avenue.

  ‘That could be anyone,’ Teddy said when Littlewood hit the pause button. Again, relief rushed through his body and his mind. He’d been fully aware of the cameras when he decided to ditch the gun, which is why he’d stayed on the far side of the street.

  ‘That’s what we decided, too. Worthless for purposes of identification, put it to the side. But then I started thinking, this guy, he’s slick. He knows where the cameras are and he’s avoiding them because he just murdered Carlo Pianetta. But what about before he murdered Carlo? When he was only out for a stroll? Was he just as alert? Was avoiding cameras part of his lifestyle? Teddy, you can believe me when I tell you that these were questions I had to answer. So, what does a cop do when he gets curious? He hits the street. And what happens when he gets lucky? That, my boy, I’m about to show you.’

  The mouse disappeared in the big cop’s hand and he raised a finger before pausing. ‘There’s a Housing Authority warehouse on Ash Street, two blocks from the Pulaski Bridge,’ he said, ‘with cameras running the length of the roofline. This footage was taken by those cameras on Saturday, November fourth , between seven thirty-three and seven thirty-nine AM. You can check out the time-and-date stamp for yourself.’

  Teddy watched himself come into view, then disappear, then appear again beneath the next camera. Like he was passing through dimensions. And maybe the quality wasn’t all that great, but no juror would look at the images and conclude that it couldn’t be Teddy Winuk on the screen. The best he could hope for was a maybe.

  ‘Now,’ Littlewood said, ‘you’re probably asking yourself how we’re gonna link the man approaching the Bridge with the man who walked down to Newtown Creek. The answer, of course, is clothing. The light pants, the open pea jacket, the knit cap. What’s your lawyer gonna tell the jury? It’s a coincidence?’

  Teddy knew that everything he’d seen or heard since he entered the room had been prepared in advance. Every fucking syllable. They were ripping away his resistance. Like he was ten years old and losing a fight. Like he wanted to cry uncle, make a full confession, anything to get out the room.

  ‘I need a toilet,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, all you gotta do is ask, Teddy. You want something to eat, to drink? I can do that, too. C’mon.’

  Teddy followed the big cop through the squad room and down a short hallway to a closed door.

  ‘Through here,’ Littlewood said.

  He pulled the door open to reveal a windowless room just big enough for a toilet and a sink. An exhaust fan on the outer wall hummed away.

  ‘Knock yourself out, Teddy. And you don’t have to leave the door open. I’ll wait out here.’

  Teddy’s physical release was immense, but again he felt like a schoolchild who’d been waiting all morning for permission to use the boy’s room. He was now certain that he’d be arrested, certain that the cops had enough to put him in the cage, certain that bail was a long shot and it’d be at least a year before he stood trial. That didn’t mean the case against him was strong. The face of the man approaching the Pulaski Bridge was blurry, the features indistinct. So, yes, it could be him, but it didn’t have to be. What he needed was a solid alibi.

  A few minutes later, when Teddy re-entered the squad room, the door to the Squad Commander’s office was open. Inside, seated on a straight-backed chair, staring right at him, was the final nail in his coffin.

  ‘Teddy,’ Sanda Dragomir said, ‘how many times I have told you? For love I do not exist. I am sorry for this, but it is simple truth.’ She hesitated a moment, as if she expected a reply, then finally smiled. ‘I am to become real American, Teddy. I am to be legal in the land of the free. Yes?’

  FIFTY

  Boots glanced through the window at his prisoner. Teddy was seated behind the table, his wrist again handcuffed to his chair. Captain Serge Karkanian stood next to Boots, his eyes also fixed on their suspect. Karkanian had been really pissed when Boots and Jill, without a trace of remorse, told him they’d been investigating Carlo’s murder. For a few minutes afterward, Boots thought Karkanian would suspend them on the spot.

  ‘You think he’s softened up?’ Karkanian asked.

  ‘I think he’s already mush,’ Jill said. She was standing behind the two men, impatient now. ‘I think, inside, Teddy’s the consistency of vanilla pudding.’

  Winuk was sitting with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, all but certain that he was going to spend the next twenty-five years in prison. Though he fought to maintain control, his emotional state was sliding toward a place called despair.

  In fact, the case against him wasn’t all that strong. Sanda Dragomir, their prime witness, was an illegal immigrant who maintained herself by selling her body. No juror would like the deal she’d cut with the state, a green card in return for her testimony. A good defense lawyer would tear her to p
ieces.

  The only true witness to what happened, Corry Frisk, had been located by OCCB within a week, as Boots predicted. Initially, she and her brother were put under surveillance and photographed. Corry’s photo was then placed in a standard photo array, along with eleven other photographs, and shown to the two men and six women who’d witnessed the Fort Greene Massacre. The witnesses had studied the faces closely, as they were asked to do, but Corry’s likeness went unrecognized.

  When OCCB, with the cooperation of the Pensacola Police Department, finally approached Corry, she simply handed them her lawyer’s business card. Likewise for her brother, Tommy. They were living in a trailer park, surrounded by well-armed veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Tommy’s pals.

  Without Corry Frisk, and with Sanda far from a disinterested witness, the case would rest on the video, a shaky foundation according to the prosecutors consulted by OCCB. Not that the DA wouldn’t prosecute. He’d charge Teddy with murder, all right, but offer manslaughter by way of a plea bargain. Given that Teddy didn’t have a record, he’d probably do three years.

  Fortunately, Teddy Winuk was not only unaware of these developments, but he probably didn’t suspect that he was being played as much by what he didn’t know as what they’d already shown him. Too bad. Winuk was as ready as he was ever going to be, at least in Boots Littlewood’s opinion.

  Boots entered the interrogation room carrying a large Pepsi and two small bags of potato chips. He laid them in front of his prisoner, then took his former seat. Jill Kelly was not in the room.

  ‘Tell me something, Teddy,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you wanna go with this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The words emerged slowly, as if the man was testing his ability to speak.

  ‘Lemme spell it out. On Saturday, November 4th, you left Sanda’s apartment around seven thirty in the morning. Before you left, you jammed a semi-automatic handgun behind the waistband of your trousers. Sanda saw you do this and she’ll testify to it. From seven thirty-three until seven forty-nine we have you on Ash Street, two blocks from the Pulaski Bridge, out for a stroll. Three minutes later, after hearing a gunshot, an honest citizen living a block from the bridge called nine one one. Four minutes after that, we have you, on multiple cameras, walking to the shore of Newtown Creek. Finally, we have a semi-automatic handgun recovered forty feet from where you stood.’