The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  When Benny and Helen returned, the cash was handed over. Benny was directed to a waiting area, Helen to the examining room. The doctor told her to go to the bathroom to undress and empty her bladder. He gave her an injection for pain, and she took her position on the table with her feet in stirrups. “I’m a dental hygienist, you know,” Helen said. “I understand how the procedure works. I appreciate how clean everything looks here.”

  “All the instruments are autoclaved,” said Lothringer, briskly indifferent to her endorsement. “You’re about six weeks pregnant. Do you feel anything?”

  “There’s no pain.”

  Once he was finished, he gave her some tablets of antibiotics, as well as sleeping pills, should she need them. Calling Benny in, he told him to get in his car and park underneath a railroad crossing, six blocks away.

  “What? Doc, I—”

  “Do as I say.”

  “Why?”

  “Do as I say. Go.”

  After Benny left, the doctor led Helen to a door that connected to the garage. His dog, a Dalmatian, joined them beside a station wagon, taking the passenger seat as Helen was ordered into the tailgate: Lie down. She crawled into the car and lay flat, still groggy. They drove a while and then pulled over. “Get out. Walk two blocks east. Your boyfriend is waiting for you.”

  “Can’t I—”

  “Get out now. There’s a door handle on the inside, you don’t need me. Go.”

  The dog barked. At her? Maybe not. Helen scrambled out of the tailgate and watched the car depart. She felt a woozy dismay. The sunlight bore down on her face. She just stood there. East? Where the hell was that? She walked half a block, and then came back. East? She sat down. Some time later, Benny found her.

  As Marie traipsed through the neighborhood, she wondered whether she should look for the railroad crossing, but she decided not to bother. What she needed was an observation point, a spot to sit and watch from. There were no benches nearby; a synagogue had broad stone steps, but it was a couple of blocks away. She went around the corner to check out the fenced-off area next to the garage—a parking lot. She meandered among the cars when the fence opened up by the Lothringer house. No, it didn’t—the garage had a back door that opened into the lot, a secret exit.

  A station wagon crept out slowly. Marie saw the Dalmatian with its spotted white head out the passenger window, pink tongue lolling. The door closed behind them, and the car disappeared onto the side street. Marie blew him a kiss when he left. What a sweet setup! Watching the front, you’d never see the patients leave. She wondered how he’d come by the odd garage, if he’d had it custom-built. This caper would be a challenge. Once the wiretap was up, she’d have to put together a surveillance team. The Lothringer house would be a technically difficult set, with two entrances; in a neighborhood without a lot of people walking around, watchers would stand out. Still, Marie knew she could manage. She was determined to win.

  The law said that abortion was like murder. Like it, but not exactly. Abortion was covered under Article 125 of the Penal Code, which spelled out the varieties of homicide. The DA usually wanted evidence of ten or twenty abortions—documented with sworn complaints, bank statements, prescription records, and other evidence—before they moved to take the case down. Marie wasn’t a detective yet, but as far as she was aware, the boys at Homicide didn’t wait for a killer’s body count to hit double digits before making an arrest. When cops raided an AB location, they always brought a police surgeon, in case they caught him in the act. Once the abortionist was in handcuffs, it would be the surgeon’s job to complete the operation. Not to stop it, or to repair whatever might be repaired, but to finish the job. The woman stayed on the table. That’s what happened when they broke into Dr. D.’s office. They were lucky to catch him then, since they didn’t have the baby’s body from the dump. His last abortion was a crime when he started it, but not when the police surgeon finished. It didn’t make sense, but Marie had grown accustomed to a measure of unreality in the law, as she had in life. The make-believe sometimes felt like dreaming, and it sometimes felt like lying. Always, it felt like a game.

  And the rules of the game were just as strange when it came to wiretaps. The taps were invaluable. They were also inadmissible. Federal law said no one could “intercept and divulge” telephone conversations; in New York, it was decided that intercepting was fine, as long as there wasn’t any divulging, at least to civilians. Cops asked DAs for wiretaps every day, and DAs gave them to judges to sign, and untold legions of mopes and mutts were locked up because of them. Cops overheard plots to commit kidnappings, bank robberies, murder, but they could never say why they happened to be in the right place, at the right time, to stop them. Juries were ignorant of the most meaningful facts in the cases they had to decide. Still, Marie was glad they were able to take some advantage—the Feds couldn’t listen at all.

  An investigation might take weeks, or months. There may have been a dozen active AB wiretaps across the city, half of which were Marie’s. Once the judge signed off, the techs at the Criminal Investigation Bureau set to it with their bag of tricks, picking out the paired screws in the feedbox, running a wire from the line up the telephone pole to the plant, wherever they set it up to listen. The plant could be anywhere with a little privacy—a vacant apartment, the basement of a grocery store, storage space at a hospital—but the closer it was to the target site, the better, in case there was need to get there in a hurry.

  Marie waited in the parking lot for the station wagon to return. She looked at the specials in the supermarket windows: Land O’Lakes Butter, eighty-nine cents; Kraft Deluxe Dinners, thirty-nine cents each; veal cutlet, sixty-eight cents a pound. The veal was a good price, but she didn’t want to leave meat in the car all day. After forty-five minutes, the station wagon emerged again from the garage, the Dalmatian’s head hanging out the window, moving at the same creeping pace. Lothringer could have returned by way of the front entrance, but to see the departure repeated so soon gave it an aspect of déjà vu. Two pregnancies had ended within the hour. Two human possibilities would never be, and two women had been spared all manner of pain, shame, and fear. Harvey Lothringer had made a thousand dollars. There were days when the world seemed to be spinning faster.

  Marie was startled by a light touch on her elbow. She turned to see a boy from the market, thickset, dark-haired, seventeen or eighteen years of age. He had a white shirt, a black bow tie, goggly black-framed glasses with a patch inside the right lens. “Are you okay, Ma?”

  He had the faintest moustache, like eyelashes that had drifted down to his upper lip. Marie wanted to brush them away. The world spun faster still. “What?”

  “Are you feeling okay?

  He had a deep voice, slightly adenoidal but assuredly mature. It did not fit his baby face. “You look a little lost. Can I get you a drink of water?”

  “Thank you, no. I was just resting. I have to go now.”

  “Well, take this, anyway.”

  He pressed a small object into her hands. A spool of thread?

  “It’s an ointment with camphor, my Ma used it, it helped with the circulation. Her hands were cold all the time, like yours.”

  Marie didn’t feign trembling as she clasped his outstretched hands with her threadbare gloves. That he’d fallen for her disguise touched her vanity, even if his eyesight was obviously not top-notch. But his compassion nearly moved her to tears. She slipped the tin of ointment into her pocket and touched his cheek. “You’re very kind. Your mother is a lucky woman.”

  Marie swept strands of gray hair from her eyes and began her arthritic shuffle out to the street. She didn’t look back until she’d gone several blocks. She had to stay in character until she was out of sight, taking a roundabout route to her car to make sure he hadn’t followed, out of concern for her welfare. She dreaded the prospect of his discovering she’d deceived him, seeing the kindness leave his face. Later on, he might learn to be cynical about ragged strangers, to be quicker to ju
dge, slower to help, but she hated the thought that she might be his teacher. She was pressed for time, but she didn’t lengthen her stride or unhunch her posture until she was back at her car. Once she was in the clear, she pulled off her wig and sped away.

  Marie clutched the tin of ointment as if it were an amulet, as if it held the same precious compassion with which it had been offered. There wasn’t much of it, so she knew she might have to make it last a while.

  10 YOU DIDN’T SEE THIS COMING

  Only the work of women spies is comparable in the need for long-sustained acting. . . . A woman detective who falls down on her character work might be thrown downstairs, or find herself looking into the business end of a pistol. We’re good at make believe. We have to be.

  —Mary Sullivan

  My Double Life: The Story of a New York Policewoman

  MARCH 14, 1963

  1400 HOURS

  Marie found Helen and Benny waiting for her in the lobby of the DA’s office. She was early, and they looked as if they’d been sitting for a while. Both of them were birdlike, slim and fine-featured, each with their own fluttery tic—her eyes darting, his fingers drumming like pistons on the wooden bench. They dressed alike in dark suits, and Helen wore white gloves. Benny jumped up when Marie arrived. His black hair was carefully combed, except for a section on the right temple, which was cowlicked from scratching. “We’re not late, right?” he asked. “She said we were late, but we’re not, I told her. And here you are, getting here after us. So we’re not, right?”

  Marie assured him they were all there at the appointed time. She thanked them for coming, as if she’d invited them to lunch. As she took Helen by the arm, she could feel the rat-a-tat of her pulse, fast as beating wings. She was glad Helen had worn gloves. They made her look younger, more old-fashioned. Helen was twenty-three, three years older than Benny. It shouldn’t have mattered that Helen looked respectable, but it always helped. She wasn’t a victim of Lothringer—she’d jumped through hoops to find him, had borrowed money to pay him. As had Benny. And she wasn’t a victim of Benny, either, but their mutual reliance on dodgy condoms from his cousin in the Army. They had dated for two years, and both were students at City College. He was in the accounting program, and she was taking night classes after her day job at the dental office. They had planned to get married next year, after he graduated. They still planned to marry, and to have children. Marie didn’t doubt that they would. She could picture them dancing at their wedding, he in a white dinner jacket, she in her white gown, the image of innocent promise, these past weeks banished from their memories.

  They reached their floor and made for their destination at the far end of the hall. The young couple gasped when they looked at the sign on the door:

  ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY ALFRED PATTEN

  DEPUTY CHIEF, HOMICIDE BUREAU

  “Oh, my God,” cried Benny. “We’re not going to be arrested, are we? Just tell me if we are. I’d rather know—”

  “Not knowing is worse,” said Helen, clutching Benny as she touched a gold brooch on her lapel. “This was my grandmother’s. I wouldn’t have worn it if I was going to prison.”

  “Nobody’s going to prison,” said Marie firmly. “At least nobody here. You’re very nice people who made a mistake. Like I told you before, you’re not in trouble. But the doctor, he’s a bad man. All you’re going to do is tell this district attorney—Mr. Patten—what happened. Just like you told me.”

  Maybe the judge, too, but Marie decided against mentioning that. Their fear was so extreme, so unfounded, that it was almost funny, but she didn’t much feel like laughing. Helen sank her head into Benny’s shoulder.

  “Do you know this Mr. Patten?” Benny asked. “Is he a good man, a nice man?”

  Marie was about to assure them that he was when Benny added a third query: “What does he look like?”

  “I’ve never met him, but—”

  “Oh, God—”

  Marie took a schoolmarm tone, forceful but not mean, as she separated the couple. “Benny, get a grip on yourself. Stand up straight now, and let me see you both. Good. Benny, I’ve spoken with Mr. Patten on the phone, and he seems like a very nice man. Helen, that is a beautiful brooch. I don’t want to hear another word from either of you, you’ll drive each other crazy. Let’s go in.”

  The receptionist looked like a sterner version of Marie’s character from this morning, gray within and without, but steely where Marie had been ashen. A tissue was tucked in the cuff of her right sleeve. Nice touch, Marie thought. She’d do that, next time. When Marie stated their business, the receptionist didn’t look up from her typing. “Please have a seat.”

  They took their places on a brown leather couch. Benny resumed his finger drumming. The receptionist hadn’t announced their arrival. Waiting wasn’t the hardest part of a case, but too often it was needlessly dispiriting. So many hours wasted, watching doors that stayed shut so the man on the other side could feel more important. Helen began to play piano with one hand on the arm of the couch. Marie decided to join their imaginary orchestra, tapping against the wall. She didn’t notice when Benny stopped his drumming. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t even notice,” he said. “I mean, Officer. How’d you get the shiner? Who’d fight a lady cop? I hope whoever did it to you, he got the beating of his life. Do you see, Helen? With all this, with us, I didn’t even see—”

  Marie was startled but recovered quickly. She always kept a couple of excuses handy, like the dog biscuits in her purse. “It’s nice of you to say, Benny. But this isn’t a war wound. I was playing catch with my daughter, who’s only ten but has a heck of a fastball. That’s my last inning for a while!”

  Benny chuckled as the receptionist picked up the phone. “Mr. Patten, your two o’clock. Yes, all here. You may go in.”

  ADA Patten’s desk was a vast table, littered with mountainous stacks of papers that gave it the look of a city skyline, midearthquake. He was an imposing man, gray at the temples, with handsome, slightly outsize features—brow, nose, cheekbones, chin—that made his face seem as if it had been put together for the benefit of jurors in the second row. His voice was deep and smooth—“Do come in, so glad . . .”—and his blue serge suit was tailored. He stepped from behind his desk to greet them. “Sorry about the mess. Very busy here, but I’m sure we all are. Thank you for coming.”

  Patten directed Helen and Benny to a couch, and Marie to a chair beside it. “I’m sure this fine officer has explained why you’re here. What I’ll ask you to do is to tell me, in your own words, what happened regarding this incident. Beginning to end. Mainly with you, Helen, though I may have questions for Benny. And, of course, this fine officer is free to speak. Once we’re finished, I will have a stenographer come in for the official statement. Do you have any questions?”

  Marie had dealt with many prosecutors over the years, but never with a deputy bureau chief. She admired his lack of sanctimony or sentiment. Some of the men were contemptuous of the fallen women before them. Many were well-meaning, but so ill at ease in discussing sexual matters that they sounded like stroke victims: “And . . . young lady . . . did this individual . . . this instrument . . . Where am I? No, of course, with regards to the lower, the nether regions, of you, of your person . . .”

  “Now that you ask, mister,” Benny began, his head rotating between Helen, Marie, and Patten, “is there any chance, we might get our money back?”

  Marie watched Patten’s eyebrows rise, his mouth narrow.

  “No,” he replied. “Illegal contracts are unenforceable, as a rule. Please, go on.”

  Helen lowered her head, her voice shaking, “If my parents found out, they’d die, they’d just die of shame—”

  Patten broke in, “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Patten looked at Marie, inclining his head toward the water cooler in the corner, and she obliged him. After Helen regained a measure of her composure, she recounted how, when s
he realized she was late, she couldn’t go to the family doctor. In desperation, she confided in a girlfriend, one of the other hygienists, who recommended another doctor in the Bronx to confirm the pregnancy. Even if he wouldn’t help, he might know someone who could. As Helen detailed the skullduggery that followed, Patten was attentive but gave no sign if he found one part offensive, or another part odd. He didn’t take notes or ask questions, save for a periodic “And then?”

  Helen became emotional when she talked about being ordered out of the tailgate: “I didn’t know where I was, the sun was so bright, the medication . . .”

  “And then?”

  “And then he said Benny was a few blocks to the east, and he drove away.”

  “East!” Benny protested. “East! What are we, Apaches?”

  “I found him very strange, very disturbing,” Helen submitted, still nervous. “I wasn’t happy with . . . so much. With everything.”

  “And then, from there,” Patten continued. “You found Benny in the car.”

  “I found her,” Benny said, stung.

  “All right,” said Patten. “And then?”

  “And then I drove her home. She went to bed, because she had to work the next day. A couple of days after that, the police lady came to the door.”

  Patten asked if she had any contact with Lothringer since, or if she required any medical treatment as a consequence of the procedure, and then he summoned a stenographer. He stood, and his tone was crisp and businesslike, warning Benny that he was here now only for moral support. He tilted his head at Marie, indicating that she should keep silent as well.

  “Ready? Now, for the record. Present in the Queens District Attorney’s office, One-Twenty-Five dash Oh-One Queens Boulevard, Room Four-Two-Four, on this date, March 14, 1963, at fourteen twenty-one hours. Twenty–one minutes after two. I am Assistant District Attorney Bernard Patten, Deputy Chief of the Homicide Bureau for the District Attorney of Queens County, in the State of New York. Present is a court reporter, and a Miss Helen M—, from whom I will take a sworn statement regarding events which occurred on the sixth and seventh of March of this year, within but not exclusively within the county of Queens. Good afternoon, Miss M—”