Pigtown
William J. Caunitz
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
For my loving wife, Pat,
who showed me the road to happiness.
1
When Detective Joe Borrelli yanked open the door, he found Beansy Rutolo’s body propped on the base of its spine inside an ancient white Westinghouse refrigerator. His legs were squeezed up against his chest, and his hands were stuffed under his ass. His left eye was closed; the right one was half open, exposing a sliver of white. Beansy’s mouth was wide open, as though he had shouted a plea for life a second before he died. A jagged bullethole gaped above his left eyebrow. What was left of the back of his skull was glued into a mound of clotted blood against the wall of the box. Most of the rear part of Beansy’s skull, along with a large chunk of his brain, was splattered across the living room.
“Beansy really pissed somebody off,” Detective Calvin Jones said, bending for a closer look at the body.
Borrelli looked around. A mound of dirty dishes cluttered the sink. The contents of the refrigerator had been thrown on the floor: a head of iceberg lettuce, soda bottles, a broken baking dish full of lasagna. Leftover peas had spilled from their Tupperware container; an unopened carton of milk had ruptured.
A doorless archway connected the kitchen with the living room. “He was whacked in the living room and carried in here,” Borrelli told his partner, padding his way around the mess on the floor. Standing under the archway, looking back into the living room, Borrelli added, “He must have been standing a little in front of that pool of blood, near the sofa, when they shot him. The force of the bullet toppled him backward, and when he went down he dragged the end table and the lamp with him.” Borrelli looked at his partner. “Beansy didn’t live here, did he?”
“Nah. This is Andrea Russo’s place,” Jones said, brushing his palms across his gleaming black shaved head. The refrigerator light made his skin look almost purple.
Stepping back from the refrigerator, Jones scratched his heavy jaw and said to his partner, “And then the perps, hadda be at least two of them, dragged ’im in here and stuffed him into the box.”
“Yeah,” Borrelli agreed, shifting his brown eyes toward the living room. He carefully observed the trail of blood that stained the blue shag carpet in the living room a deep brown and continued in the kitchen, making a bizarre accent on the sunflower-patterned linoleum. “This is one messy hit. I don’t think they planned on whacking him here.”
“Beansy and the doers come here for a meet or something, they get into an argument over something, they do Beansy, and then panic because they don’t know what to do with the body, so they put the sucker into the icebox,” Jones said, bending to examine the heel print in the blood.
Borrelli nodded agreement and brushed his fingers through his wavy black hair. At thirty-six he had the haggard look of a man juggling too many girlfriends.
“The crime scene guys just pulled up,” the uniformed sergeant called in from the living room door.
“Let’s wait outside until the lab boys get done,” Borrelli said, leading Jones through the front door.
The two detectives stood glumly on the worn gray boards of a broad front porch that once bore the weight of rockers and gliders and was now devoid of any furniture, in a neighborhood where a footstool wouldn’t last the night. They watched as the crime scene detectives slid their battered black valises out of a dark green station wagon.
The patrol sergeant’s radio motor patrol car was parked at the curb in front of the wagon. Leaves from a sickly looking maple tree in front of the crime scene on Brooklyn’s Rutland Road were just starting to turn as September eased closer toward the fall.
Borrelli stepped off the porch and lit a cigarette. The massive concrete towers of Kings County Hospital and Brooklyn State Hospital loomed in the bright morning sunlight on Clarkson Avenue, a few blocks away. He turned and looked at the emergency service police officers who were stooping over and combing the weedy backyard, their eyes fixed on the ground as they searched for the murder weapon. “A made guy gets popped and it’s treated like an accident case today. A few years ago, this place would have been crawling with headquarters brass and television cameras.” Borrelli seemed almost wistful.
“There’s so many of them being offed these days that one nickel-and-dime pinky-ring is no big deal,” Jones said, looking at the three remaining one-story frame houses on the block, with their pitched roofs and porches with peeling paint, overgrown with yellow weeds. Large parcels of weed-choked land separated each house; old tires and the skeletons of stolen cars decorated each vacant lot. To the west, the Jackie Robinson Housing Projects stood on the stretch of land once ruled by Ebbetts Field and the Brooklyn Dodgers. Modern apartment buildings a block away towered over the small houses. Looking east at the two-story brick Trump homes that were built in 1935 to replace many of the farmhouses, Jones found himself trying to imagine what the tiny valley of Pigtown had been like as farmland with wooden shacks, chicken coops, and pigsties. “It’s hard to believe that there were pig farms in this section of Brooklyn up until the sixties.”
“Pigtown used to be a big wiseguy hangout, now it’s nothing but low rent,” Borrelli said. He gazed off at the distant limestone Seven One Precinct police station that looked like some medieval manor house, perched six blocks away atop the steep rise of Empire Boulevard. “The ol’ Seven One has seen a lotta changes over the years.”
“Every precinct in this town has seen a lotta changes.”
“Yeah, but not like the Seven One. C’mon, let’s do the canvass and see if any of these drones saw anything.”
“What about the boss?”
Borrelli looked at his watch. “It’s ten to twelve. He finishes his piano lesson at noon. I’ll call ’im then.”
Lieutenant Matthew Stuart, the whip of the Seven One Detective Squad, sat at a Steinway parlor grand piano, his long fingers gliding effortlessly over the keyboard as he played Beethoven’s Sonata in B-flat Major.
Stuart had loved music since he was a kid and always wanted to play the piano, but there had never been time to take lessons. Then, five years ago, his wife had walked and he’d found himself divorced, and suddenly there’d been a lot of time, more than he’d known what to do with. He had been determined that he was not going to spend his time sitting on the pity pot or drowning his loneliness in a vodka bottle the way a lot of divorced cops did; so a few years ago, for his fortieth birthday, he’d given himself a present of piano lessons and begun scheduling himself for a day duty every Tuesday and taking an eleven o’clock meal hour so he could go to his teacher’s comfortable apartment on the ground floor of a turn-of-the-century brownstone on Brooklyn’s Fenimore Street to take his lesson.
“That was good, Matt,” said Denise Ritter, a handsome woman on the threshold of fifty, with lustrous black hair. She was sitting on a chair next to her pupil, watching his still awkward fingering with her limpid gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “You have to pay more attention to your fingering.” She pointed to the sheet music. “In the second measure, what fingers of the right hand should play the G and B?”
“The second and fourth.”
“That’s right. But you did not use your second and fourth, and you ran out of fingers. Please play it again.”
As he began to play, a serene expression settled over his face. He was a well-built man just under six feet, with high cheekbones and a long, angular face that gave his handsome features a look of openness and vulnerability. He had deep green eyes and wavy brown hair that was thinning in front and was starting to streak gray and was layered over the tops of his ears in a fashion that suggested just a touch of vanity as well as a minor denial of middle age.
Matthew Cosgrove Stuart had been swor
n into the NYPD on January 1, 1974. Six months later, when his class of six hundred rookies graduated from the Police Academy, he had been the only one assigned to the coveted detective division. All of his classmates had assumed that Matt Stuart had a “heavy wire,” someone very influential, on the “Fourteenth Floor,” as the police commissioner’s office in One Police Plaza was referred to in the Job. But they were all wrong; the truth was that the Job owed Matt, and the department always paid its debts.
Stuart spent the next nine years working in the Tenth Detective Squad in Manhattan’s Chelsea District. When he was promoted to sergeant in 1984, he was assigned as the second whip in the Seventeenth Homicide District in Queens. Three days before he was to be promoted to lieutenant, in December of 1987, he received a telephone message directing him to report “forthwith” to the chief of detectives office. C of D AI Steinman, a gruff man who did not believe in mincing words, was sitting behind mounds of case files when Stuart walked into his thirteenth-floor office. Steinman looked up at him, yanked the ragged cigar out of his mouth, and said, “You’re getting made in three days, what squad do you want?”
“The Seven One,” he said without a second’s hesitation.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Steinman said, plunging the cigar back between his thick lips with a satisfied grunt.
Walking out of the chief’s office, Stuart thought, The bastards will always owe me.
Denise Ritter watched her pupil’s fingers moving back and forth across the keyboard. Unconsciously her eyes slid down to the Glock nine-millimeter automatic pistol hugging his right hip, and the handcuffs, and the cloth pouch containing an extra magazine. She wondered, not for the first time, how this gentle man with a love of music could be in such a deadly occupation. She had a deep curiosity about what he was like in his police world, that world he never talked about.
Stuart slowly raised his long fingers from the keyboard as he finished playing.
“For next time, work on your balance and your pedaling,” the teacher instructed her student crisply.
Stuart smiled at her and said softly, “I’ll promise to—” His beeper went off. He looked down at the window and asked, “May I use your phone?”
“Of course.”
He walked over to the oval Victorian table and picked up the portable handset, punching in the number of the Seven One Squad. Sitting on the sofa that faced matching chairs upholstered in faded brocade, he glanced around the room at the music memorabilia, posters of long-ago concerts and operas, busts of Beethoven and Mozart, a large etching of the grand staff. He smiled at his teacher; she smiled back.
“Seven One Squad,” Detective Jerry Jordon answered.
“What’s up?”
“Beansy Rutolo got himself popped in Pigtown.”
“Location?”
“Four-oh-one Rutland Road. Borrelli and Jones are over there now doing the canvass.”
“Witnesses?”
“None so far.”
He smiled again at his teacher, while keeping his tone businesslike and level. “Notifications?”
“The c of d, Operations, and the borough, along with the ME and the DA, have all been notified, and entries made in the telephone message book.”
“Is the ME going to respond?”
“He said to bag ’im. He’ll do him at the morgue.”
“I’m on my way.” Standing, Stuart punched the off button and returned the telephone to its cradle. He slid his blue blazer off the back of the chair and, swinging it around his shoulders, said to his teacher, “I’ll see you next week.”
The detectives were still standing on the porch, comparing their canvass notes, when Stuart drove up in the unmarked department car. “No murder weapon, so far,” Borrelli said to the whip as he came up the steps.
“How did you find out about it?” Stuart asked, looking at the cops searching the deep yard for the murder weapon.
“An anonymous 911 call,” Borrelli said. “I ordered a copy of the tape.”
“Who was the first sector on the scene?” Stuart asked.
Borrelli replied, “Only the sergeant and his driver responded to the call.”
Jones slipped a folded sheet of paper out of his suit jacket. “I had Records fax Beansy’s rap sheet to the Squad.”
Stuart took the dead man’s criminal record. After reading it, he looked at his detectives and said, “Beansy was sixty-eight years old. He skated until he took his first fall in sixty-two for grand larceny auto. During a long, full life of crime, he took five collars and only did one stretch inside, seven and a half to fifteen for a manslaughter two that was knocked down from murder one.”
“Beansy was a cautious man,” Borrelli said, grinning.
“He certainly wasn’t careful enough today,” Stuart said, looking around the one-story bungalow. “Who owns this place?”
“Andrea Russo,” Jones said.
“Daughter of Tony ‘Two Chins.’ Right?” Stuart asked.
“Yeah,” Borrelli said. “After he got popped back in eighty-two, Andrea moved back in with her mother. The old lady died last year. Andrea lives here by herself now.”
“Is she still on the shit?” Stuart asked.
“The word is she worked herself up to an eight-hundred-a-day habit, and then a year ago she checks herself into a rehab and cleans up her act. She’s been on the straight and narrow ever since,” Jones said.
“I hear she’s even taking night courses in LaGuardia Community College,” Borrelli added.
“That’s real nice, but she’s still tending bar at Holiday’s,” Stuart said with a nasty edge to his voice, and turned the knob of the front door, which was covered in peeling green oil-based paint.
He found himself in a tiny living room crowded with large black furniture of elaborately carved wood with gilt decorative detailing. At the far end sat a large golden lamp with a pleated off-white shade fringed in golden tassels. Time stopped in 1934 around here, he thought, nodding to the sergeant.
A detective from the crime scene unit was snapping pictures of what was left of Beansy; another was using a camera on a tripod to photograph a heel print impression in the blood on the floor. A ruler and identification labels lay beside several other impressions. White fingerprint powder smudged the wood and glass surfaces. Another detective was vacuuming the sofa and surrounding area. Two bored ambulance attendants were sitting on a gurney in the living room, waiting impatiently for the detectives to finish.
Stuart went over to the sergeant and signed the crime scene log with his name, rank, command, and time entering the crime scene. After doing that, he glanced over at the morgue attendant and asked, “Was he pronounced?”
“Yeah, he’s officially dead,” said one of the attendants, a fat, wheezing, pasty-faced man. Looking at the detectives inside the kitchen, he added, “Any chance of hurryin’ ’em up? It’s almost time to eat.”
Stuart glanced with annoyance at the fat man and walked into the kitchen.
“I’ll be done in a second, Lou,” the photographer said, using the diminutive of “lieutenant” that was routine on the Job, as he snapped photographs of the broken eggs, scattered vegetables, spilled milk, and soda bottles. After the detective finished taking the official pictures, Stuart walked over to the refrigerator and bent in close to examine the body. He retched at the stench. Beansy’s sphincter muscle had given way and his bowels had voided. Stuart pulled out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose with it. A ribbon of dried blood came out of the left ear. Sticking his head inside the box, he saw no powder burns around the puffy entrance wound on the forehead. He felt Beansy’s neck: it was stiff from the downward constrictions of rigor mortis, while the shoulders and lower torso were limp. He unbuttoned the dead man’s sportshirt and tugged it down over the shoulders. Lividity’s plum-red skin discoloration had not yet started, but gravity would soon cause the blood to sink to the lowest parts of the body.
Jones and Borrelli stood behind the whip, watching.
“’bout three hours,” Stuart said.
“That would make the time of death around nine-thirty,” Jones said.
“Give or take some, yeah,” Stuart agreed, waving his hand at the ambulance attendants, beckoning them to remove the body.
They wheeled the gurney into the kitchen. The fat one worked his arms around the dead man’s chest while his partner locked his arms around the legs. “Someone unzipper the bag,” the attendant called out.
Jones went over to the gurney and pulled down the black body bag’s zipper.
“Now,” said the short, older attendant.
They struggled to get the body out. Beansy’s head was yanked out of the bloody crust; a gory mass tumbled out of the shattered gaping rear of the skull and plopped on the bottom of the box, splattering the fat attendant’s blue work uniform. They carried Beansy over to the gurney and tossed him on top of the body bag.
“He has to be searched,” Stuart said, looking at the sergeant.
The uniformed cop came over and began carefully turning the dead man’s trouser pockets inside out. A large wad of money and two sets of keys were in the right pocket. A handkerchief and a broken comb were in the back pocket. He took a watch with a heavy gold bracelet off the left wrist of the corpse and tried to get off the diamond pinky ring but couldn’t. He tried twisting it off, and that didn’t work. Stuart went over to the sink and turned on the faucet. He wet a bar of soap and, going over to the body, picked up Beansy’s hand and lathered the pinky. He tugged off the ring and handed it to the cop.
The cop dumped the watch and the ring into a property envelope and, wiping his hands on the dead man’s trousers, looked at the sergeant and said, “That’s it, boss.”
Stuart took both sets of keys and walked into the living room. He tried the first set on the front door; they didn’t work. He tried the other set; they did. Back in the kitchen, he gave the policeman back the other set of keys, saying, “Let’s count the money.”
Pigtown Page 1
