by Parnell Hall
“Simple,” Richard snapped. “By catching the killer, that’s how. By doing something constructive, instead of just rooting around in my files.”
“I think you’ll find that we have been quite busy,” Clark said. “As to your files, I am still convinced that we will find the answer there. In point of fact, my own opinion is that the only reason we haven’t found it before now is that your files are in such deplorable condition that finding anything is next to impossible. Which is not surprising, considering the young men you have doing your filing. If you’re paying those two boys what they’re worth, then you’re guilty of violating the labor laws, and if you’re paying them minimum wage, then you’re being taken.”
Richard, recognizing a no-win situation, contented himself with a contemptuous snort.
“But we’re not here to bicker,” Clark said. “We’re here to solve a series of murders. Now you can bitch all you want about what the police aren’t doing—though when I tell you what we are doing I think you’ll change your tune—but the fact is, I want to do more. And that’s why I’m here.”
Clark walked to the door, opened it, looked out and closed it again. It was so hopelessly theatrical I almost laughed. He was checking to see if anyone was listening at the door.
“Now then,” Clark said. “Whatever else we may know about the killings, one thing we know for sure. They are connected in some way with Rosenberg and Stone. And there must be a reason. And if there is a reason, it is possible that one of you knows it.” Sergeant Clark held up his hand. “Now don’t protest. You wouldn’t know that you know it. But you might know some small thing, that when added to everything else, would fit in and make a pattern. If so, I want to find out what it is.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Richard said.
“Simple,” Clark said. “I’m going to tell you what we have so far, and you are going to tell me if anything rings a bell.”
Whatever Richard had been expecting, it wasn’t that. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
And neither could I. The last thing in the world I’d expected was that Sergeant Clark would want us to listen. A grueling interrogation had seemed entirely more likely.
Sergeant Clark pointed his hand and snapped his fingers. “Walker,” he said. His manner was as if calling a trained dog.
Walker appeared to take no offense. He opened a briefcase and pulled out a file.
“Start with Clarence White,” Clark said. “It’s the most recent and the most relevant.”
“Yes, sir,” Walker said. He flipped the file open.
“Before you do, let me summarize the situation,” Clark said. “Now then, we’ve had four killings.” I groaned, but said nothing. “Darryl Jackson, Winston Bishop, Gerald Finklestein and Clarence White, or George Webb, if you will. The killings form a pattern, the pattern of a serial killer. As in any serial killings, we look for similarities in the pattern.
“The last killing tends to bear out a theory I have held. The victim was black and lived in Harlem. As were the first two victims. It is my contention that black and Harlem is part of the pattern.
“The third victim, Gerald Finklestein, was white and lived in Queens. I suggest this is not consistent with the pattern as we know it, but may be consistent in some other way. Or it may turn out we do not have the complete pattern yet.
“At any rate, that is my present contention. That black and Harlem are part of the pattern, and relevant to our current discussion.
“All right, Walker. Clarence White.”
“Yes, sir,” Walker said. “Clarence White. Six feet, one inch, one hundred ninety pounds, black. Taxi cab driver. Has been off and on for seven years. Present employment, operates a gypsy cab for Fascab, a fleet of ten cabs operating out of an establishment on West 125th Street. The proprietor is one Joe Black, who, incidentally, is white.”
That was something. A black man named White, working for a white man named Black. That had to mean something. It was a shock to realize it didn’t.
“Unmarried. No children. Mother, Clarissa, lives in Bedford Stuyvesant with boyfriend, Harold Johnson. No brothers. Two sisters. One in Bed-Stuy, one in Queens. Sister in Queens married with three children. Husband of sister in Queens, mother living, five brothers, two sisters, seventeen nieces and nephews. None ever injured, none ever contacted Rosenberg and Stone.”
My jaw was open. All that in one night. Sometimes it had taken me a week and a half just to find one of Richard’s clients.
Walker looked at Clark. “You want all the names and addresses?”
“No. They can go over the list later. Just the essentials.”
“OK. Girlfriend, Julie Bainbridge. Harlem. Twenty-five years of age. Lives in project with mother. Two sisters. Two children by a previous marriage. Ex-husband, Ronald Bainbridge, reportedly living in New Jersey, possibly Newark, have not yet been able to trace.”
That made me feel a little better. For all their efficiency, the police had not yet been able to find the ex-husband of the victim’s girlfriend.
“From all reports, Ronald Bainbridge has not been seen or heard from for at least three years. Julie Bainbridge is, quote, devastated by the news. She had not seen Clarence White in the past two days. That is to say, since the morning of the day before yesterday. They had quarreled, apparently over a boyfriend of Julie Bainbridge’s, although this is surmise, as she is reticent on the subject. All attempts to identify her outside interest have been futile. She’s not talking, and the family either knows nothing or isn’t talking.
“Regarding the injury. Clarence White broke his leg in an automobile accident a week ago Tuesday. It was a two-car accident involving a cab and a private car. Clarence White was driving the cab, and he appears to have been at fault. Officers on the scene reported finding open alcohol in the cab, and subsequent blood tests lead to Clarence White being charged with D.W.I. He was taken to Harlem Hospital, from which he was released three days ago. No friend, relative, neighbor or anyone at the hospital has any recollection of Clarence White saying anything of having any intention of calling Rosenberg and Stone.”
“What?” Richard said, leaping to his feet. “Just a minute. Just a minute here. What are you doing? Are you trying to ruin me?” Richard glared at Sergeant Clark, then pointed his finger at Walker. “That man has just read off a list of over fifty people, all of whom you say state that Clarence White had no intention of calling Rosenberg and Stone. Is that what you’re doing? Going around and asking the friends and relatives of all the victims if they ever called Rosenberg and Stone? You might as well close me down. You might as well put a full-page ad in the paper, warning people against calling Rosenberg and Stone.”
Sergeant Clark eyed Richard coldly. “I have thought of that, Mr. Rosenberg. I have considered it. It may well be that that is exactly what the killer is after. Exactly the result the killer is attempting to bring about. The closing of Rosenberg and Stone. If so, by doing what you say, the killings would stop. We could potentially save lives.”
Richard blinked. It was not exactly a threat, but it might as well have been. Sergeant Clark, by giving information to the press, could do exactly that.
“It’s a tough decision,” Clark said. “There’s a homicidal maniac out there. If I in effect shut down Rosenberg and Stone, that will stop him from killing Rosenberg and Stone clients.
“But will it stop him from killing? That’s the question. The thing is, I think not. It’s a disease, you see. The serial killing. The homicidal mania. And it feeds on itself. It gets easier every time. And it becomes a compulsion.
“So my opinion is that the killings would not stop. The pattern would merely change. The killer would transfer his attentions elsewhere. Perhaps start a different series.
“Which would put us back to square one in the investigation. And potentially cost us more lives.
“The only solution is to nail the killer. So my decision is to proceed as we are doing. And maintain media silence. And close the
net on the creep.”
Sergeant Clark looked at Richard Rosenberg with some distaste. “So, to answer your question, no, we have not been asking everyone if the victims in question ever mentioned calling Rosenberg and Stone. We have asked very casually, among several other things, if they had consulted or mentioned intending to consult a lawyer with regard to their accidents. A perfectly routine question under the circumstances. The law firm of Rosenberg and Stone has never been mentioned. Not by us. With the exception of the early publicity linked to Winston Bishop, which has since been curtailed.
“However, discrete inquiries have elicited the information that Winston Bishop did express an intention to call a lawyer, though no one can remember which one. Gerald Finklestein was known to have had the intention of calling Rosenberg and Stone. Clarence White, to the best of our knowledge—which is somewhat limited, since we have only been working on this since last night—had expressed no intention of hiring an attorney, though a brother-in-law states he had intended to recommend Davis and Lee.
“So your fears are groundless. Your law practice, such as it is, for the moment is not in jeopardy.”
“Thank you,” Richard said coldly. “You will pardon my saying so, but for a police sergeant engaged in an impartial murder investigation, you seem to express personal animosity toward me.”
“Is that so?” Clark said. “You’ll pardon it, I’m sure. I believe I stated that your files, such as they are, may eventually prove illuminating. They have in one respect already.”
“What about my files?”
Sergeant Clark smiled coldly. “I note that you are attorney of record for one Enrico Hernandez. In the case of Hernandez vs the City of New York, the Police Department of the City of New York, and officers Morris and Beame.”
Richard was incensed. “You’re supposed to be looking for evidence of murder. You have no business simply pawing through my files.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Rosenberg. Though we’re all human beings, aren’t we? Let me refresh your memory with regard to Enrico Hernandez. The gentleman in question has a number of priors, including sale of narcotics, assault and rape. The incident in question occurred when the officers attempted to arrest Mr. Hernandez for the rape of a twelve-year-old girl. A charge, by the way, of which he has subsequently been found guilty. In the course of the arrest, Mr. Hernandez pulled a knife and slashed the face of Officer Morris, a wound requiring forty-four stitches. According to the arresting officers, Mr. Hernandez then leaped from a second-story window onto concrete, fracturing his left leg.
“You, sir, have filed a five-million-dollar suit against the City of New York, the police department, and the officers in question, alleging police brutality.”
“That’s my job,” Richard said. “I file the complaint, the city contests it and the court will rule.”
“Perhaps,” Clark said. “But more than likely, in the interest of expediency, the matter will be settled for a compromise figure. It won’t matter to Hernandez, as the state will garnishee his share of the settlement to pay his past debts to the city. On the other hand, you will make a fat fee, and the names of the officers will be blemished.”
Clark took a breath. “Now, Mr. Rosenberg, in spite of any personal animosity you might feel I have for you, I am doing everything in my power to keep your business open. So would you kindly hold your tongue and let us get on with it?”
23.
I FELT BAD.
You see, I’d signed up the Enrico Hernandez case myself. I’d been working for Richard about four months when the case came in. And I had reason to remember it, ’cause for me it had been a big case, particularly after a steady diet of trip and falls.
The case was something substantial. Something important. Police brutality. You hear about police brutality all the time. It’s phrase in our language. It’s one word: police-brutality. And suddenly here it was, and I was investigating it.
I was properly awed.
I remember it very well. I was in the Bronx doing an INV, (that’s investigation), looking for one of Richard’s clients who had to be in court for a pretrial hearing. The client had no phone, so I had to go to her apartment, only when I got there I found out she hadn’t lived there in a year and a half, and no one seemed to know where she was. I was on my way to the post office to pay a buck to see if she’d filed a change of address when she left, when I got beeped.
I called in, and Kathy, who was one of Richard’s secretaries at the time and who had a disposition like a jackhammer, gave me the assignment.
Enrico Hernandez. Broken leg. Case involves police brutality. Client has been charged with rape and resisting arrest. Client currently at Montifiore Hospital under police guard.
“What?” I said.
“Enrico Hernandez. Montifiore Hospital,” Kathy snarled. “Go sign him up.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “This is a case of police brutality and the guy is under police guard. How am I gonna interview him with a cop there listening?”
“I don’t know,” Kathy said sarcastically. “Would you like me to come hold your hand?”
That prospect did not thrill me. But I would have liked someone.
You gotta understand. I’d had very little experience with cops back then, and cops had always intimidated me.
But it was a job, and I had to do it, so I went.
There was no problem. They gave me a visitor’s pass at the front desk and sent me on up. They didn’t ask if I was a lawyer, nor did they tell me that the patient was under police guard.
But when I found the room, there was a cop in uniform sitting on a chair right outside the door.
I didn’t know the procedure. I wondered if I should speak to him. But I figured if that was the procedure, he’d speak to me. So I walked on in. He didn’t stop me. I just walked into the room.
There were two beds in the room, but only one was occupied. The bed by the window. Lying in the bed was a twenty-five-year-old, emaciated Hispanic, with a mustache, a two-day’s growth and watery eyes. There were scratches on his face, and a tooth was missing. His left leg was encased in a cast and suspended above him in traction.
But all those things were secondary.
The thing that I noticed, the thing that got me, was the fact that his right wrist was handcuffed to the headboard of his hospital bed.
“Mr. Hernandez?” I said.
He looked up at me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Hastings, from the lawyer’s office.”
There was light in his eyes and he tried to sit up in bed, impossible with the handcuffs and his leg in traction.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said excitedly. “Beat me up, man. Cops beat me up.”
As he said it, the cop came strolling in from the hall, pulled up a chair and sat down.
And stayed there for the whole interview. Stayed there while Enrico Hernandez told how he’d been out on probation and had noticed some cops following him. And how he didn’t want to get in trouble with the cops, ’cause he was on probation, so he ran. Only the cops chased him and caught him. And when they caught him, they were angry at him for running away, so they beat the shit out of him.
I can’t tell you how I felt in that hospital room. Listening to the guy tell the story, with the cop there, listening too. I mean, there I was, representing Hernandez’s attorney, which made me on his side. In a case of police brutality. Which made the cop on the other side. Which made it a hostile situation. And I’m not good at hostile situations. And I was even less so back then.
The cop never said a word. He just sat there while I took down all the information. Sat there while I had Enrico Hernandez sign the retainers. He never said boo.
But I sure knew he was there.
After all that, I took out my camera. I figured I was taking a good chance of getting it impounded, but I figured I had to try. I took out my camera and snapped on the flash, to see what the cop would do.
He did nothing. He just sat there.
So I aimed the t
hing and snapped off shots of Enrico Hernandez. I shot his missing tooth. I shot his scratched face. I shot his broken leg.
But most of all, I shot the handcuffs. The handcuffs chaining his right wrist to the headboard of the hospital bed.
See, I figured that was the key. I figured it was a case of police brutality. And in the case of Enrico Hernandez, the most brutal thing I could think of, the most telling visual, the most glaring example of oppression, was the sight of those handcuffs, chaining a man in traction to his bed.
And that was it. That was the end of the case as far as I was concerned. I turned in the signup and the pictures, got paid for it, and my job was finished. As far as I was concerned, that was it.
But the thing is, I felt good about it at the time. It had been a tough assignment, one that I had been nervous to do, but I’d done it. And I’d done a good job. I’d done a good job signing up the client, and I’d done a good job taking the pictures. I was particularly proud of those. Because I was doing a job for Richard, for Richard and the client, and I’d got just what Richard would want.
It never occurred to me to question Enrico Hernandez’s story at the time. Or if it did, it didn’t bother me. That’s the thing. The client had made a charge of police brutality, that might or might not be true and I had covered my end of it well.
But at the time, I had thought of the arresting officers as cops. Not people. Cops. Not as human beings who might have been hurt by what I’d done. Assuming they were, in fact, innocent. Just cops. A word on a piece of paper. An element in the story.
So it hadn’t bothered me at the time.
But now I felt bad.
And I was angry at Sergeant Clark for making me feel that way. Because, damn it, I was only doing my job. And Richard was only doing his job. And if Enrico Hernandez was lying, I wasn’t at fault. And Richard wasn’t at fault. But Sergeant Clark was making us feel that way. And I felt sorry for Richard for being put in that position. And I felt I should defend him. But I could think of nothing to say. And I felt I should defend myself, too. Though I could think of even less to say there.
