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“Forty-seven times.”

  “In the belly, the head, the breasts, everyplace.”

  “With an icepick.”

  “He was guilty as sin.”

  “He said he did it to save her from the Martians.”

  “A regular bedbug.”

  “Forty-seven times.”

  “How could that save her from the Martians?” the second painter said.

  “Maybe Martians don’t like ladies with icepick holes in them,” the first painter said, and burst out laughing. The second painter guffawed with him. Together, they perched on their ladders, helpless with laughter, limply holding brushes that dripped paint on the newspapers spread on the squadroom floor.

  The man entered the park at ten A.M.

  He was perhaps twenty-seven years old, with a narrow cold-pinched face, his lips drawn tight against the wind, his eyes watering. He wore a beige car coat, the collar pulled up against the back of his neck, buttoned tight around a green wool muffler at his throat. His hands were in the slash pockets of the coat. He wore brown corduroy trousers, the wale cut diagonally, and brown high-topped workman’s shoes. He came onto the Clinton Street footpath swiftly, without looking either to the right or the left, walked immediately and directly to the third bench on the path, picked up the lunch pail, tucked it under his arm, put his naked hand back into his coat pocket, wheeled abruptly, and was starting out of the park again, when a voice behind him said, “Hold it right there, Mac.”

  He turned to see a tall burly Negro wearing what looked like a blue astronaut’s suit. The Negro was holding a big pistol in his right hand. His left hand held a wallet which fell open to reveal a gold and blue shield.

  “Police officer,” the Negro said. “We want to talk to you.”

  | Go to Contents |

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Miranda-Escobedo sounds like a Mexican bullfighter.

  It is not.

  It is the police shorthand for two separate Supreme Court decisions. These decisions, together, lay down the ground rules for the interrogation of suspects, and cops find them a supreme pain in the ass. There is not one working cop in the United States who thinks Miranda-Escobedo is a good idea. They are all fine Americans, these cops, and are all very concerned with the rights of the individual in a free society, but they do not like Miranda-Escobedo because they feel it makes their job more difficult. Their job is crime prevention.

  Since the cops of the 87th had taken a suspect into custody and intended to question him, Miranda-Escobedo immediately came into play. Captain Frick, who was in charge of the entire precinct, had issued a bulletin to his men shortly after the Supreme Court decision in 1955, a flyer printed on green paper and advising every cop in the precinct, uniformed and plainclothes, on the proper interrogation of criminal suspects. Most of the precinct’s uniformed cops carried the flyer clipped inside their notebooks where it was handy for reference whenever they needed it. The detectives, on the other hand, normally questioned more people than their uniformed colleagues, and had committed the rules to memory. They used them now with easy familiarity, while continuing to look upon them with great distaste.

  “In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda v. Arizona,“ Hal Willis said, “we’re required to advise you of your rights, and that’s what I’m doing now. First, you have the right to remain silent if you choose, do you understand that?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you also understand that you need not answer any police questions?”

  “I do.”

  “And do you also understand that if you do answer questions, your answers may be used as evidence against you?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I must also inform you that you have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning, do you understand that?”

  “I understand.”

  “And if you decide to exercise that right but do not have the funds with which to hire counsel, you are entitled to have a lawyer appointed without cost, to consult with him before or during questioning. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “You understand all of your rights as I have just explained them to you?”

  “I do.”

  “Are you willing to answer questions without the presence of an attorney?”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” the suspect said. “Should I?”

  Willis and Brown looked at each other. They had thus far played Miranda-Escobedo by the book, warning the suspect of his privilege against self-incrimination, and warning him of his right to counsel. They had done so in explicit language, and not by merely making references to the Fifth Amendment. They had also made certain that the suspect understood his rights before asking him whether or not he wished to waive them. The green flyer issued by Captain Frick had warned that it was not sufficient for an officer simply to give the warnings and then proceed with an interrogation. It was necessary for the prisoner to say he understood, and that he was willing to answer questions without counsel. Only then would the court find that he had waived his constitutional rights.

  In addition, however, the flyer had warned all police officers to exercise great care in avoiding language which could later be used by defense attorneys to charge that the officer had “threatened, tricked, or cajoled” the defendant into waiving. The officer was specifically cautioned against advising the suspect not to bother with a lawyer, or even implying that he’d be better off without a lawyer. He was, in short, supposed to inform the defendant of his privilege against self-incrimination and his right to counsel, period. Both Willis and Brown knew that they could not answer the suspect’s question. If either of the two had advised him to answer questions without an attorney present, any confession they thereafter took would be inadmissible in court. If, on the other hand, they advised him not to answer questions, or advised him to consult with an attorney, their chances of getting a confession would be substantially lessened.

  So Willis said, “I’ve explained your rights, and it would be improper for me to give you any advice. The decision is yours.”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” the man said.

  “Well, think it over,” Willis said.

  The young man thought it over. Neither Willis nor Brown said a word. They knew that if their suspect refused to answer questions, that was it, the questioning would have to stop then and there. They also knew that if he began answering questions and suddenly decided he didn’t want to go on with the interrogation, they would have to stop immediately, no matter what language he used to express his wishes —”I claim my rights,” or “I don’t want to say nothing else,” or “I demand a mouthpiece.”

  So they waited.

  “I got nothing to hide,” the young man said at last.

  “Are you willing to answer questions without the presence of an attorney?” Willis asked again.

  “I am.”

  “What’s your name?” Willis said.

  “Anthony La Bresca.”

  “Where do you live, Anthony?”

  “In Riverhead.”

  “Where in Riverhead, Anthony?” Brown said.

  Both detectives had automatically fallen into the first-name basis of interrogation that violated only human dignity and not human rights, having nothing whatever to do with Miranda-Escobedo, but having everything in the world to do with the psychological unsettling of a prisoner. Call a man by his first name without allowing him the return courtesy and:

  (a) You immediately make him a subordinate, and

  (b) You instantly rob the familiarity of any friendly connotation, charging its use with menace instead.

  “Where in Riverhead, Anthony?” Willis said.

  “1812 Johnson.”

  “Live alone?”

  “No, with my mother.”

  “Father dead?”

  “They’re separated.”

  “How old are you, Anthony?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  �
�What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m unemployed at the moment.”

  “What do you normally do?”

  “I’m a construction worker.”

  “When’s the last time you worked?”

  “I was laid off last month.”

  “Why?”

  “We completed the job.”

  “Haven’t worked since?”

  “I’ve been looking for work.”

  “But didn’t have any luck, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell us about the lunch pail.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, what’s in it, first of all?”

  “Lunch, I guess,” La Bresca said.

  “Lunch, huh?”

  “Isn’t that what’s usually in lunch pails?”

  “We’re asking you, Anthony.”

  “Yeah, lunch,” La Bresca said.

  “Did you call this squadroom yesterday?” Brown asked.

  “No.”

  “How’d you know where that lunch pail would be?”

  “I was told it would be there.”

  “Who told you?”

  “This guy I met.”

  “What guy?”

  “At the employment agency.”

  “Go on,” Willis said, “let’s hear it.”

  “I was waiting on line outside this employment agency on Ainsley, they handle a lot of construction jobs, you know, and that’s where I got my last job from, so that’s where I went back today. And this guy is standing on line with me, and all of a sudden he snaps his fingers and says, ‘Jesus, I left my lunch in the park.’ So I didn’t say nothing, so he looks at me and says, ‘How do you like that, I left my lunch on a park bench.’ So I said that’s a shame, and all, I sympathized with him, you know. What the hell, poor guy left his lunch on a park bench.”

  “So then what?”

  “So he tells me he would run back into the park to get it, except he has a bum leg. So he asks me if I’d go get it for him.”

  “So naturally you said yes,” Brown said. “A strange guy asks you to walk all the way from Ainsley Avenue over to Grover and into the park to pick up his lunch pail, so naturally you said yes.”

  “No, naturally I said no,” La Bresca said.

  “Then what were you doing in the park?”

  “Well, we got to talking a little, and he explained how he got his leg hurt in World War II fighting against the Germans, picked up shrapnel from a mortar explosion, he had a pretty rough deal, you know?”

  “So naturally you decided to go for the lunch pail after all.”

  “No, naturally I still didn’t decide to do nothing.”

  “So how did you finally end up in the park?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “You took pity on this man, right? Because he had a bum leg, and because it was so cold outside, right?” Willis said.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “You didn’t want him to have to walk all the way to the park, right?” Brown said.

  “Well, yes and no. I mean, the guy was a stranger, why the hell should I care if he walked to the park or not?”

  “Look, Anthony,” Willis said, beginning to lose his temper, and trying to control himself, reminding himself that it was exceptionally difficult to interrogate suspects these days of Miranda-Escobedo when a man could simply refuse to answer at any given moment, Sorry, boys, no more questions, just shut your dear little flatfoot mouths or run the risk of blowing your case. “Look, Anthony,” he said more gently, “we’re only trying to find out how you happened to walk to the park and go directly to the third bench to pick up that lunch pail.

  “I know,” La Bresca said.

  “You met a disabled war veteran, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And he told you he left his lunch pail in the park.”

  “Well, he didn’t say lunch pail at first. He just said lunch.“

  “When did he say lunch pail?“

  “After he gave me the five bucks.”

  “Oh, he offered you five dollars to go get his lunch pail, is that it?”

  “He didn’t offer it to me, he handed it to me.”

  “He handed you five bucks and said, ‘Would you go get my lunch pail for me?’ “

  “That’s right. And he told me it would be on the third bench in the park, on the Clinton Street footpath. Which is right where it was.”

  “What were you supposed to do with this lunch pail after you got it?”

  “Bring it back to him. He was holding my place in line.”

  “Mm-huh,” Brown said.

  “What’s so important about that lunch pail, anyway?” La Bresca asked.

  “Nothing, Willis said. “Tell us about this man. What did he look like?”

  “Ordinary-looking guy.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  “Middle thirties, thirty-five, something like that.”

  “Tall, short, or average?”

  “Tall. About six feet, I would say, give or take.”

  “What about his build? Heavy, medium, or slight?”

  “He was built nice. Good shoulders.”

  “Heavy?”

  “Husky, I would say. A good build.”

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Blond.”

  “Was he wearing a mustache or a beard?”

  “No.”

  “What color were his eyes, did you notice?”

  “Blue.”

  “Did you notice any scars or identifying marks?”

  “No.”

  “Tattoos?”

  “No.”

  “What sort of voice did he have?”

  “Average voice. Not too deep. Just average. A good voice.”

  “Any accent or regional dialect?”

  “No.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Brown overcoat, brown gloves.”

  “Suit?”

  “I couldn’t see what he had on under the coat. I mean, he was wearing pants, naturally, but I didn’t notice what color they were, and I couldn’t tell you whether they were part of a suit or whether …”

  “Fine, was he wearing a hat?”

  “No hat.”

  “Glasses?”

  “No glasses.”

  “Anything else you might have noticed about him?”

  “Yeah,” La Bresca said.

  “What?”

  “He was wearing a hearing aid.”

  The employment agency was on the corner of Ainsley Avenue and Clinton Street, five blocks north of the entrance to the park’s Clinton Street footpath. On the off-chance that the man wearing the hearing aid would still be waiting for La Bresca’s return, they checked out a sedan and drove over from the station house. La Bresca sat in the back of the car, willing and eager to identify the man if he was still there.

  There was a line of men stretching halfway around the corner of Clinton, burly men in work clothes and caps, hands thrust into coat pockets, faces white with cold, feet moving incessantly as they shuffled and jigged and tried to keep warm.

  “You’d think they were giving away dollar bills up there,” La Bresca said. “Actually, they charge you a whole week’s pay. They got good jobs, though. The last one they got me paid real good, and it lasted eight months.”

  “Do you see your man anywhere on that line?” Brown asked.

  “I can’t tell from here. Can we get out?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Brown said.

  They parked the car at the curb. Willis, who had been driving, got out first. He was small and light, with the easy grace of a dancer and the steady cold gaze of a blackjack dealer. He kept slapping his gloved hands together as he waited for Brown. Brown came out of the car like a rhinoceros, pushing his huge body through the door frame, slamming the door behind him, and then pulling his gloves on over big-knuckled hands.

  “Did you throw the visor?” Willis asked.


  “No. We’ll only be a minute here.”

  “You’d better throw it. Goddamn eager beavers’ll give us a ticket sure as hell.”

  Brown grunted and went back into the car.

  “Boy, it’s cold out here,” La Bresca said.

  “Yeah,” Willis said.

  In the car, Brown lowered the sun visor. A hand-lettered cardboard sign was fastened to the visor with rubber bands. It read:

  POLICE DEPARTMENT VEHICLE

  The car door slammed again. Brown came over and nodded, and together, they began walking toward the line of men standing on the sidewalk. Both detectives unbuttoned their overcoats.

  “Do you see him?” Brown asked La Bresca.

  “Not yet,” La Bresca said.

  They walked the length of the line slowly.

  “Well?” Brown asked.

  “No,” La Bresca said. “He ain’t here.”

  “Let’s take a look upstairs,” Willis suggested.

  The line of job seekers continued up a flight of rickety wooden steps to a dingy second-floor office. The lettering on a frosted glass door read:

  MERIDIAN EMPLOYMENT AGENCY

  JOBS OUR SPECIALTY

  “See him?” Willis asked.

  “No,” La Bresca said.

  “Wait here,” Willis said, and the two detectives moved away from him, toward the other end of the corridor.

  “What do you think?” Brown asked.

  “What can we hold him on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So that’s what I think.”

  “Is he worth a tail?”

  “It depends on how serious the loot thinks this is.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I think I will. Hold the fort.”

  Brown went back to La Bresca. Willis found a pay phone around the bend in the corridor, and dialed the squadroom. The lieutenant listened carefully to everything he had to report, and then said, “How do you read him?”

  “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “You think there really was some guy with a hearing aid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why’d he leave before La Bresca got back with the pail?”

  “I don’t know, Pete. I just don’t make La Bresca for a thief.”

  “Where’d you say he lived?”

  “1812 Johnson. In Riverhead.”

  “What precinct would that be?”