Marie sat down and opened the folder, scanning each of the articles in the main papers. It was interesting to see the shifts in tone, which paper tended toward sanctimony, sentimentality, violence, or sex. The Daily News had the longest version.
Parts of a young woman’s body were found choking the sewer line leading from the $85,000 brick ranch home and office of a well-to-do physician in the fashionable Jamaica Estates North section of Queens.
On Monday morning, Mr. & Mrs. L—had showed up at the Queens DA’s office to make an official complaint that their daughter was missing. Somewhat reluctantly they told the story.
On Thursday, Barbara had come to them with the news that she was pregnant. L—, who was a pharmacist, had through a friend’s intercession made arrangements to meet Dr. Lothringer at 2 a.m. in Grand Central Terminal.
There, on schedule, the girl and her parents were met by the doctor and a female friend. The price of the operation, set in advance, was $1,000. Mrs. L—paid the money and accompanied her daughter to the doctor’s home and office, but Mr. L—was sent home.
The mother sat in the waiting room for hours. At 7:30, Monday morning, he came and told her that everything would be all right. “You can go home and come back for her later in the day.” When she returned, the house was locked and dark and there was no answer to her many phone calls.
On Tuesday the doctor called a friend and asked him to have a sewer service clean out the traps in his house. He obtained the key from Lothringer’s parents who lived nearby and let the sewer cleaner into the house.
As the work was being done, pieces of human flesh and other organs began coming out of the choked sewer lines. The cleaner called the police.
Marie closed the folder and began to compare the new case to the one she’d brought. There was the meeting at Grand Central Station, as with Helen and Benny; the female accomplice was present at the house, rather than just being a voice on the phone. And the price had doubled, to a thousand dollars. Did the family seem especially desperate, or especially wealthy? Given that the procedure usually took less than twenty minutes, Barbara probably died shortly after her arrival. Her mother sat waiting for hours, not knowing. How murderous it all seemed! And yet it wasn’t that, Marie had no doubt. At worst, there was some medical error, but even if it rose to the level of malpractice, Dr. Lothringer surely intended for Barbara to walk out of his office. Some complication—an allergic reaction, a heart problem—was far more likely. He was a professional man, after all. In an eighty-five-thousand-dollar house. Marie hated to agree with ADA Patten on his distinction between the professionals and the hacks and quacks, but it mattered to the girls. Maybe not to Barbara, she supposed.
Marie found she’d had been staring at the wall for some time. Her report was due soon. Ticktock, ticktock. How many seconds were there in nine months? Sixty to a minute, and sixty minutes to an hour made for thirty-six hundred, times twenty-four, made for . . . Her notebook was soon covered with scratched-out sums. She had eighteen million seconds, give or take. All the time in the world.
Why did Lothringer wait until morning to tell Mrs. L. to leave? She must have sat there for hours. Ticktock. Marie imagined how the woman felt at seven-thirty in the morning, when the doctor told her to go home, that Barbara was fine, just resting. Marie couldn’t believe she believed him. Surely, Mrs. L. must have balked at walking away, straining against some deep maternal coil that bound her there. And then her abjection on her return, finding the door locked, the house dark. Double-checking the street signs, desperate to convince herself that she’d made a simple little mix-up with the address, instead of a much bigger mistake. No, that was enough for Marie to imagine. She wouldn’t try to see herself in anyone’s place, mother or daughter, expecting or otherwise.
Marie began to type. She never used the word I, but the abbreviation u/s for undersigned, the police term used in lieu of the personal pronoun: “The u/s received information through a lawfully authorized telephonic intercept of an individual alleged to be in violation of New York State Penal Law Article . . .” The egoless term aided her immersion in her assignment. She summarized the accounts of Benny and Helen, annotated her sketches, listed observations on reports on the death of Barbara L. Marie lost herself in her work and was content to stay lost.
Sometime later, there was a knock at the door. It was Emma, telling her that it was one o’clock and that the director would see her now. What Marie had was sufficient, she supposed. No sense in being a perfectionist about a lie she didn’t want to tell. As Marie gathered the papers, the sense of lulled focus that she’d just enjoyed left her. Her head filled again with static, the crossed signals telling her she had to do something, and that she didn’t dare. And then her mind quieted. There was little comfort in the silence, but a chilly lucidity, a cold calm.
Marie couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t try to find a doctor, in Queens or anywhere else. She was stuck. Stuck with this pregnancy for the next seven-plus months, stuck with Sid for the next six after. Stuck at home for a year. It didn’t matter if she was more frightened of getting caught than of getting killed, or if she feared Mrs. M. more than the wrath of God. She didn’t know what kind of movie her life was turning into, but it wouldn’t be one of those tawdry women-in-prison pictures. Who knew if they wouldn’t change the rules about locking up the girls if a policewoman was caught getting an abortion. A particular policewoman, who had sent so many abortionists to jail. And who had embarrassed a district attorney. Exceptions could always be made.
Marie sucked in her stomach and held her breath, for practice. She could hold it for five seconds, fifteen, twenty. Eighteen million seconds left, minus twenty. She had time to figure out the next step. A false distinction, don’t you think—personal and professional? Motherhood had turned out much better than it had first seemed; marriage, far worse. But even the prospect of becoming a cop had changed her, and one day—not soon, but the day would surely come—it would allow her to become an ex-wife. If she had to keep the baby for no other reason than to keep her job, it was reason enough. So many good days it had given her, even if today was not one of them. It was time for a change of assignment, ASAP for the u/s. The pregnancy beat wasn’t for her anymore.
Again, the boss was on the phone, her face the picture of strained patience, beckoning with an articulate flick of her hand for Marie to take a chair and surrender the documents. “As it happens, I am somewhat short-handed. I have what you requested. If you could send someone over, it would be most convenient.”
When Mrs. M. smiled, it looked like the corners of her mouth were lifted by fishhooks. The sarcasm was gone now; this was hostility, barely concealed. Marie wasn’t certain whether she was witnessing a skillful exertion of influence or a sad show of its absence. The only obvious fact was that Mrs. M. felt it necessary to shield Marie from an important man who was angry at both of them.
“By then, of course, I would expect the notification . . . Of course, your word is sufficient for me, as I hope mine is for you . . . There has never, ever been a question about her, either in the quality of her work or the quality of her character. Both are sterling. Good afternoon.”
Mrs. M. hung up the phone. She took out a tissue and blotted her temples, damped her upper lip. The emptiness in Marie’s stomach started to feel acidic. She needed to eat, but she had no appetite. The inspector stared down at her desk and then surveyed the broader expanse of her office. “Will I miss this?”
Was Mrs. M. thinking about retiring, or was it something worse? The room was painfully still, but Marie didn’t break the silence. The question hadn’t been asked for her to answer.
“Not this part,” Mrs. M. said, after a while. “Forgive me if I seem unfeeling, but my husband and I have not been blessed with children.” She plucked another tissue from the box. Marie wanted to take hold of her hand. She knew little of Mrs. M.’s private life and hadn’t guessed its sorrows. She knew there was a Mr. Melchionne, but she had never met him. She didn’t kno
w his first name. The inspector picked up Marie’s report and began to read it carefully, making notes on a yellow legal pad. The sound of the fountain pen on the pad was soft and secretive, like the worried tread of mice behind walls. She was dismayed by so many things—the death of the girl, the dishonesty of the DA, the escape of the doctor. Her own wretched circumstance, marital and maternal. She squirmed like a schoolgirl in her chair.
Finally, the inspector put down her pen. She rubbed her hands, as if to keep them warm. Marie was horrified to catch herself thinking she could use that, the next time she did the old lady disguise.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Marie. I should have told you earlier, but I have been reassigned from the Policewomen’s Bureau. Just when I finished my graduate degree on the subject. Perfect timing, some might say. My new command will be with the Juvenile Division. ‘Women and children.’ Although I have been assured that it is not a demotion—repeat-edly—it was not my decision. We must learn to make the best of things. You will, too, in time.”
The phone rang twice, and then a third time, before Mrs. M. picked it up. “Yes, Emma? Who? Have him call back. No, I’ll call him, in an hour. He’s here? How rude. No, he can’t come in. I’m speaking with Marie, and he should learn to make an appointment. I’ll go out.”
Mrs. M. hung up the phone. “Someone from the Youth Board. My appointment isn’t official yet. Can’t anyone keep a secret? Excuse me, dear.”
Marie made no remark when Mrs. M. left her. The news hit her harder than this morning’s story had in her car, but she couldn’t turn off the radio, or change the station. She felt even more stupid, even more stuck, never having considered that more was at stake than her own position. The last time she’d sat where she was, in a like state, she was fretting over her transfer to Narcotics. Mrs. M. had surprised her by arranging for Sid’s promotion to a gambling squad. The time before that, Marie had matron duty, so that she could attend Sid’s medal ceremony. What prize was in store for him today? If there was one demand Marie would make of Mrs. M., aside from a getting out of ABs, it was—
No, Marie would make no demands. Mrs. M. couldn’t do anything for her anymore. That was what Marie had to resign herself to, as much as her pregnancy. The loss of her protector, her adviser. Her friend, she almost dared to say. She wouldn’t lose her job, not altogether. There were protections for civil servants, even for policewomen who had provoked powerful men. Thank God there had been a newspaper strike when she’d told off a bureau chief! But there might be no need to ask for a change of assignment. She dreaded the idea of returning to matron duty. After all she’d done, she’d be as much a prisoner as the prisoners she’d watch. Marie could try to get steady midnight tours, she supposed. That would be the responsible choice. At least she could see Sandy for breakfast every day, and dinner, though the rest of her life would be physically exhausting and professionally useless.
She tried not to look at her watch as five minutes became ten, and twelve minutes became fourteen. That was all? Really? She wasn’t sure if she could manage fifteen years of eight-hour days in a staring contest with the clock. Her stomach sank further when she realized that she could, if she had to, if her house and child depended on it. Children, she’d have children then. It would be a fight to leave Sid, and money would be a part of it. Could she depend on him to pay for child support? Even if he managed to avoid indictment. Could she afford to keep Katie? Marie broke down and looked at her watch. God no, it couldn’t be—was it back to eight minutes? No, time couldn’t have gone backward, not even here. Her eyes must be wet. She lowered her head and feigned a sneeze, as if there were someone still here to pretend for. When the phone on the desk rang, no one answered. The sight of the inspector’s empty chair made Marie nearly ill.
As Mrs. M. strode back into the room, Marie became hazily aware that Emma wouldn’t have put the call through, unless the boss was returning. Marie watched intently as Mrs. M. lifted the receiver and spoke, wringing every syllable like a wet towel for all possible drops of meaning. It was a thrill to see Mrs. M. as her old self again, agile and assured. “Good afternoon. Oh, hello, Fred, yes . . . Mmm, that’s not quite the case, but I see how he might have put it that way . . . yes, that’s exactly it. No, I don’t trust him, and there’s no need for him to do it tomorrow, if he can do it today. Now, in fact. Yes. I have your word, yes? Thank you, your saying so is like having a United States Savings Bond. Yes, that’s what I hear, too. Who knows?”
When Mrs. M. hung up the phone, her face resumed its mask of pensive melancholy. Marie struggled to remember the vivacity that that had moved through it like an electric current, seconds before. Now, she seemed as plain and plaintive as a widow in her weeds. “Marie, my dear, you will be missed. I am sorry about that. And whoever succeeds me in this position will feel the same way, I am sure.”
“What?”
Marie was paralyzed. Could they fire her? They couldn’t just fire her. No—
“It can’t be helped,” the inspector went on. “It isn’t all you deserve, but—”
“What?”
“But you were made for the Detective Division. You’re already better than most of the men there.”
“What?”
Although Mrs. M. laughed at her stumped, repeated query, her voice was forlorn as she reached across the desk to take Marie’s hand. “Forgive me. I’m so accustomed to having you in my confidence, but I couldn’t tell you until I was certain. District Attorney O’Connor has strongly recommended you for the Detective Division, and I have secured the guarantee of the chief inspector, Fred Lussen, that the transfer has occurred. You will report tomorrow to Manhattan South Burglary.”
“What? Why?”
“Fear, of course. Of me, of you. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Now, Mrs. M. smiled in unmediated pleasure. “Why do you think Mr. O’Connor took such trouble with this? There are murders every day, and DAs don’t call press conferences to say how hard they tried to prevent them. He could have simply assured the public that the matter would be pursued to the full extent of the law. That may have been the wisest course. But he was afraid that someone—you or I, to be precise—would contact one of the reporters who have covered our exploits with enthusiasm and alert him to the fact that Mr. O’Connor had refused to take action in what was, in the end, a matter of life or death.”
There was much for Marie to take in. The day had been so full of awful shocks that she was unwilling—unable, really—to hear the glad tidings. And it seemed so shameful to celebrate, though she could have jumped up out of her seat and screamed with relief. Not fired. Promoted. She tried to find a more intelligent expression of her confusion, but she failed. “What he . . . I just don’t—”
“To say nothing would likely have been preferable. One can’t know, of course. These stories have a way of taking on lives of their own. Mr. O’Connor is an honorable man, in his fashion, and this foray into mendacity shows a lack of practice. Which is noteworthy, for a politician. Which reminds me—did you really threaten to put his bureau chief in the back of a station wagon, with a dog?”
“No, Mrs. M., I’d never—”
Mrs. M. laughed, and all was so well in the world that Marie wanted to cry. “I almost wish you had. Ah, well. Still, calling that press conference did force a reckoning. He wouldn’t have to worry about waking up one morning to read of his malfeasance, weeks from now. Had he been willing to work with the Policewomen’s Bureau, he would have known that I am not in the habit of disclosing our . . . missteps to the public. ‘Dirty laundry’ is an expression I don’t care for. Nor do I think of this transaction as a kind of blackmail. It is a dangerous enterprise to make men of influence look foolish. Their reactions can’t be predicted.”
Marie knew the wisdom of that observation. She wondered where Mrs. M. had learned it. There wasn’t any trepidation in the inspector’s voice until she turned her head from the window to Marie, her eyes wide, then quivering with misgiving. She looked down at her desk
and opened one of the side drawers, taking out another manila folder, thicker than the first she’d given her. Mrs. M. slid it across the desk, her voice a whisper. “Don’t misunderstand me. To be respected as equals is what I want for us, and I believe that day will come. In the meantime, there can be an advantage in being overlooked, underestimated, insulting though it is. There are forgotten chapters of history, and the future is full of blank pages. Can I trust you with this?”
Please don’t, Marie thought, her horror of complication outweighing any curiosity. The mention of blackmail unnerved her. What was she being offered? Love letters from the mayor to a showgirl? The encrypted missives of atomic spies? Marie couldn’t refuse anything the boss asked on any day, let alone this one, her last in the Policewomen’s Bureau. “Of course, Mrs. M.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
“Keep it safe.”
“Of course.”
“I know you didn’t ask for this, but . . .”
Marie nodded. “No one will ever know.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” said Mrs. M. She seemed confused, at first, and then slightly cross. “In fact, I hope you are entirely mistaken. It’s my master’s thesis, and I only have one other copy. A history of policewomen in New York City. I assume it will be of interest. Haven’t I always said that our story must be told? It doesn’t always pay to persevere, Marie, but there is certainty in the alternative. Go home now, that’s enough for one day, more than enough. I wish I could have done more for you—you’ll retain your rank as policewoman for the time being, but I’m sure they will come to appreciate you as I do, and you’ll get your gold shield as soon as one becomes available. I do so enjoy your company, and I am so grateful for your work. Please come see me when you can.”
The Policewomen's Bureau Page 31
