After Flatow left, Catafalco checked his watch and flipped through the homicide report. It was a good one, complete and detailed, although he did not study the details. He did not have to. If a chief inspector called to tell special investigations that nothing was amiss, then something was very much amiss, indeed. A major favor would be owed the DA’s office and him personally should this one slide by as planned. He checked the part of the report that described the dead man. As Battle had said, not a citizen, not a fellow to be much missed. It was unlikely to draw significant heat. Now the only issue remaining was to acquire merit in the eyes of the powers, and to derive some sweet personal juice from the affair. He checked his watch again. He just had time to make the call.
2
LOU CATAFALCO WAS PART OF THE LAST GENERATION OF CATHOLIC NEW Yorkers to have spent his elementary-school years entirely in the hands of nuns, and to this he attributed his difficulty in speaking extempore before a group. He hated any meetings at which he might be called upon to speak. He feared the slashing ruler still; and of all meetings, he hated most the one that took place every Wednesday morning in the office of the chief assistant DA. It was the meeting of all the bureau chiefs—homicide, narcotics, fraud, rackets, special investigations, complaint, appeals, and the six trial bureaus, which handled the people’s cases in all criminal matters that did not fall under the rubric of the specialized bureaus. Here the chief assistant DA, the operating boss of the DA’s office, in other words, heard about any problems likely to arise, and any complaints, and a description of what the particular bureau had been doing for the past week and would be doing for the week to come. Simple, routine, but . . .
The chief assistant DA did not much resemble Sister Mary Angelica (a woman who still made appearances in Catafalco’s nightmares, slashing her eighteen-inch maple measuring device like a cossack’s saber), being much taller, six five at least, and with a flat, hard, vaguely Eastern face. Jewish, too, rather than Irish, like Sister, and the eyes were gray with yellow flecks, not ice-chip blue. No, it was something about the look in the eyes, a look impossible to prevaricate against, an intelligence impatient with fumfering, with incompetence. His name was Roger Karp, universally called Butch. Catafalco had known Butches before, and they were all genial, overweight, happily stupid men. Why did he call himself Butch? To disarm probably. You didn’t expect a Butch to embarrass you in public; a Butch told you to forgedaboudit and invited you for a brewski.
The meeting was starting, as it always did, with homicide. Catafalco thought this a little unfair. The position ought to be rotated so that everyone got a chance to be first. Special investigations was always last, except for complaint, which was a bunch of clerks and kids. Favoritism, and homicide always took up the most time. That was because Karp and the homicide bureau chief were buddies from way back. Karp never came down hard on Roland Hrcany, the way he did on some of the others. Catafalco didn’t care for Hrcany either. The guy looked like an ape, for one thing, like a pro wrestler—huge shoulders, a jagged Neanderthal face, that white-blond hair, which he probably dyed, hanging down over his collar like some hippie. And he was mean, too. When Karp was on someone, Roland often put the needle in, too, sarcastic, contemptuous . . .
Hrcany finished talking about a case, People v. Benson. Karp raised a point about a possible violation of the confrontation clause. Hrcany said it was a Green exception. Catafalco tried to recall what Green was, as if he ever knew, and gave it up. Some Supreme Court decision. They seemed to enjoy this kind of argument, all the precedents vital to trial work seemed to be in their heads. He couldn’t follow much of it himself. Instead he looked at his notes for his turn at show-and-tell. Neighborhood school-board corruption, a hardy perennial. Indictments were almost ready in two cases. A scatter of inspector bribes now in the system and being negotiated. All, he thought, would settle, no trials there. A continuing investigation into the taxi and limousine bureau, clerks taking bribes for licenses. He was fairly sure that would yield a sheaf of indictments. A bad cop in Inwood, Patrolman Martino. And the Cooley case, the Lomax shooting. Just starting on that one, but clearly routine. In and out.
He waited, mind drifting, while the trial bureaus and the other specialty bureaus had their five or ten minutes each. Then Karp nodded to him. He cleared his throat and began. During his presentation several of the chiefs excused themselves and left, pleading more pressing engagements. That was fine with Catafalco, although also unfair. It would be nice to slip out early himself for a change, were he not ever the next to last. As he spoke, Karp made notes in one of those pale green ledgers he used. Catafalco thought it unlikely that the notes were about special investigations. Fine again; he was almost done.
“. . . and we’re getting full cooperation from the taxi people on this, a lot of good data. We should get at least twenty-one indictments, and I expect the whole thing to wrap up before the first week in April. Finally, a couple of police cases. We have Patrolman Vincent Marino, in that drug-ring business up in Inwood, we’ll be bringing an indictment there day after tomorrow, the police are fine with that, a clear-cut bad boy, and Brendan Cooley, a self-defense shooting, no problems foreseen.”
Karp raised his eyes and looked directly at Catafalco. “The Cooley? You’ve investigated this already? I thought it just happened Sunday night.”
“Well, yeah, Butch, it was a very straightforward case.”
“Really? That would make it unique in the annals of cop shootings.” Chuckles around the table.
Catafalco made himself grin, too, and said, “Hey, sometimes it goes easy. We should be thankful and not make trouble for ourselves. The deceased’s a known felon, a known thief. The officer involved spotted him in a stolen car and gave chase. A high-speed pursuit then ensued, during which the actor, in his vehicle, attempted to ram the police vehicle. Shots were fired and the man died. Straightforward. I fought the law, and the law won.”
Catafalco smiled again with the small joke, but Karp’s face was neutral as he asked, “He stopped the high-speed chase and then tried to ram?”
“Something like that. No, not stopped really, sort of slowed and then whipped around on the highway and attempted the ram. He was in one of those giant SUVs, too, a goddamn Jeep Cherokee. You imagine one of those tanks coming toward you? It looks like a clear selfdefense to me, Butch.”
A couple of long beats while those funny eyes bored into his own. Catafalco felt sweat start popping on his upper lip and forehead. Then, to his relief, Karp nodded sharply once and said, “Fine. Bill, your turn.” The complaint bureau chief rattled off some numbers and complained about the toilets down there not working. Karp made a note and said, “Anything else? No? Then thank you, and . . . go forth and do good.”
The meeting broke up. Roland Hrcany hung behind, as he often did, to speak a few private words to Karp. The two men were friends, in an oddly rivalrous way, the rivalry existing almost entirely in Hrcany’s mind. They had started in the DA on the same day nearly twenty years ago and were among the last survivors of the golden age of the New York DA, when it had been run by the immortal Francis P. Garrahy.
When the last of the chiefs had departed, Roland rolled his eyes, snorted, and said, “Christ, what a putz!”
Karp had no need to ask which putz, although there were several among the ranks of the bureau chiefs, in this age of lead. “Lou does the best he can,” said Karp charitably.
“Right, and if you’re a clerk boosting postage stamps, the man’s all over your sorry butt. Meanwhile, the feds get all the real action on official corruption.”
“Yeah, that’s a shame. I’ll tell you what, Roland, since you’re so eager, why don’t we move you over to special investigations? Make a nice change for you. You can go after the mayor.”
Hrcany guffawed and held his fingers in the shape of a cross, as if to ward off Dracula.
Karp smiled. “Yeah, right. I rest my case. For whatever reason, this office has never gone after the big boys, even when Garrahy was here. The
feds and the state carry the coal on that, and we pick up the bent fire inspectors, which is why we have people like Lou in there. Same with narcotics, same with fraud and rackets. As you know. What did you think of that last case?”
“What, Cooley-Lomax? Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t like how fast he got through his investigation. When was Lou Catafalco ever known for speed?”
Roland shrugged. “Hey, sometimes it’s easy, like he said.”
“Uh-huh. You haven’t heard any buzz about this one, have you?”
“It’s a little early for buzz to circulate. But, if you’re uncomfortable about it, you could give the case to me.”
This was a mischievous suggestion, and they both knew it. “Come on, Roland, be real.”
“Why? Hey, that bozo shouldn’t be allowed within five miles of a homicide case, which is what this one is. Why are you rolling your eyes? What—you think I’m in bed with the cops, right?”
“Not in bed, Roland, I would never say that. But the cops are buying you your fourth sidecar and running their hand up your dress.”
Roland tried not to laugh, failed, and said good-naturedly, “Fuck you, Karp.”
“Thank you, Roland. Hear anything new on the bum slasher?”
“Just the usual scuttlebutt. The cops figure it’s one of the homeless, a psycho. Between you and me, it’s probably not the department’s highest priority. A lot of people think, ‘Oh, what a disaster, the bums’ll get scared and move out of town.’”
“I hope you’re not one of those people.”
“Moi? Hey, you know me, a soft touch. I gave a dollar to a guy last week. No, wait, I think it was 1988. Why, you think Jack is interested?”
“No, I’m fairly sure he’s not. I have a funny prejudice against serial killers, even if they pick people with low incomes. That may be just me, though.”
“Oh, I got a great joke reminds me of that. There’s these three lesbians on the bum, right? A Jew, an Italian, and a black one. And they’re diving in Dumpsters and all, and they find this dead rat . . .”
Karp looked ostentatiously at his watch. “I have another meeting.”
“You do? What an extremely important man you must be!” said Hrcany, miffed.
“Yeah, I am, and Roland? I’m sure it’s a hilarious joke, but let me remind you yet again . . .”
“Oh, right, the thought police. For crying out loud, it’s only a joke.”
“Nothing’s only a joke anymore, man. And you have the rep.”
“Bullshit! I haven’t grabbed anyone’s ass in over two weeks.”
“Laugh all you want,” said Karp wearily, for they had been over this ground many, many times, “but I’d hate to see you crash and burn on this.”
Hrcany cocked a hand behind his ear. “Okay, what are the latest rules? Tell me. No sexist jokes, no honey or sweetie to the secretaries, no pats on the ass . . .”
“No calling Judge Leonora Parkhurst, quote, a fat, dumb cunt, unquote, right out in the fucking hallway in front of Part Forty-nine.”
Hrcany reddened. “Who told you that?”
“Everyone, Roland. It’s common knowledge.”
“Well, she is a fat, dumb cunt!”
“No. She is incompetent, a nitwit, a nincompoop, a juridical nonentity, a cretinous, slack-jawed, lazy disgrace to the bench. But she is not a dumb cunt.”
“If she was a man, could she be a dumb cunt then?”
Karp sighed. “Get the fuck out of here, Roland.”
When Hrcany was gone, Karp stood up, stretched, yawned, and said, “What did you think of that, Murrow?”
From his chair in the corner, shaded by the leafy fronds of a potted palm, Gilbert Murrow, Karp’s special assistant, said, “The colloquy with Hrcany? Or the meeting?”
“The meeting, of course,” Karp snapped. “The business with Catafalco and Cooley.”
“Oh. Well, Catafalco seemed anxious not to draw undue attention to the case. He seemed much more comfortable with the taxi inspectors. Do you suspect hanky-panky there?”
Karp sat down again and looked at the ceiling. He motioned Murrow to emerge from the jungle, and Murrow did. He was a small, neat man in his early twenties, sandy-haired with old-fashioned round, steel-rimmed spectacles on his bland, Protestant American face. He had an oddly Dickensian way of dressing—heavy tweeds, figured waistcoats, shiny high-laced boots, foulard or paisley ties—that Karp found both annoying and comforting by turns. Karp was a traditionalist by instinct and liked Murrow’s decorative aspects, and the idea that he, an assistant himself, had an assistant amused him. Murrow was an obscure legacy of someone the DA had owed a favor and, from objecting to the idea of parking this person with him, had come to value the young man. He was efficient, invisible, had a lightning shorthand, and belying his antique mien, knew what there was to know about computers, a subject in which Karp himself remained at pre-Dickensian levels.
“Not hanky-panky as such,” said Karp after a moment. “A highspeed chase . . . the boys get their adrenaline pumping, and they catch the guy—it’s Rodney King time, they’re liable to dance on his head awhile before they’re calmed down enough to take him in. Especially if the suspect is from one of our fine minority groups.”
“I’ve always wondered why they did that.”
“What, be racists?”
“Oh, no, I take it for granted that they’re racists like everyone else in the country. But, you know, they read the papers, they know about video cameras, they know about mass rallies in support of some poor bozo some cops shot twenty holes in for no reason. You would think they would, I don’t know, pause? Maybe think, ‘Hey, duh, we could maybe get in trouble if we keep shooting this demented old lady’?”
“A demented old lady with a potentially dangerous spoon,” said Karp. “Yeah, I ask myself that all the time, Murrow. Most street cops would say that people like you and me aren’t qualified to ask it, because we’ve never faced deadly force or had to use deadly force in response. My wife would be the one to ask that one. On the other hand, it’s an outlier problem. Thirty-nine thousand cops, all armed, eight million people, and how many shots get fired in a year? Three hundred? We had a little over two hundred fifty cop shootings last year, twenty dead. On the other hand, that’s probably more than there were in all of Europe and Japan combined. We’re a violent people and . . .”
Karp paused, for so long as Murrow, who was used to thoughts intruding in this way on the natural flow of his boss’s conversation, prompted him, “And . . .?”
Karp chuckled. “And I have to go to a meeting. Sometime we’ll have a longer talk about the role of the police in the criminal justice system.”
“Oh, good! Can I invite my friends?”
“Go to your room, Murrow,” said Karp, at which point his intercom rang.
“Mr. Solotoff is on the line,” said his secretary.
“Shelly Solotoff?”
“He didn’t give me his Christian name, sir. Would you like me to inquire?”
“No, it’s got to be the guy and there’s nothing Christian about him. Look, Flynn, I’m running late. Make my excuses and tell him I’ll get back to him.” Karp hung up and walked down the short corridor that separated his office from that of the district attorney.
Who was at his desk, in shirtsleeves, playing with a big, unlit claro Bering cigar, and talking with his assistant DA for administration, Norton Fuller. Karp felt a burst of irritation when he saw Fuller, who was sitting in the side chair to the DA’s left, where Karp normally sat during a one-on-one. Fuller was a new thing. Previously, Karp and Jack Keegan had met alone after Karp’s staff meeting, wherein Karp would tell the DA what he thought the DA needed to know, and the DA would give his orders, many of which Karp would actually carry out. Now, however, Keegan had started to invite Fuller to these meetings. Karp sat down in the other side chair and arranged his face into neutral pleasantness.
“Hello, Jack. Norton.” The other two men nodded and continued
their conversation, which was about the DA’s schedule of political speeches. Karp watched them interact, not paying much attention to the content. Keegan was looking good; politicking seemed to energize him. He was a big man, not as tall as Karp, but more massive, with a red Irish hawk-face and a great mane of silver hair, worn long and swept back. Norton was half his size, the sort of person who in Karp’s tough old Brooklyn neighborhood would have been called a shmendrick: Woody Allen without the nose or the sense of humor. Karp did not like Fuller very much, but Karp always made an effort to be nice to the man, since it was Karp’s own fault that the man was here. Karp hated administrative work, the sign-offs, the endless committee meetings, the columns of figures, and was not shy of complaining about it to Keegan, so that when the DA had brought Fuller in, not as a sort of glorified clerk, but as a grandee nearly as powerful as Karp himself, reasoning (he said) that the operations of the DA were ultimately dependent upon the stuff Fuller had charge of—budgets, personnel, training, scheduling, computer systems, and the like—it seemed ridiculous for Karp to complain. He suspected that Keegan had manipulated him into this situation, a suspicion that had approached certainty when the man Keegan picked as administrative chief was Fuller, a political operative of some reputation in the state. Also Karp’s fault; Karp avoided politics to the extent possible and complained bitterly when he had to stand in for Keegan on the rubber-chicken circuit. Now he no longer needed to. Fuller had taken on those tasks. He liked rubber chicken and giving speeches in hotel ballrooms. He had a little folding stand that he stood on when he did, so that his head appeared at an acceptable height above the lectern.
Fuller was going through a list of venues Keegan had to appear at. Even Keegan seemed bored. At a break in the spiel, Keegan asked Karp, “You heard the news?”
“About the president?”
Enemy Within Page 3
