Stakeout (2013) (12 page)

“You’re kidding.”

“Safest thing to do. Solves all your problems. If it isn’t the murder weapon, it won’t matter a bit. If it is the murder weapon, you’ll find out.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Damn straight.”

“Is there anything else I could do for you?”

“You sure you don’t know any officers on the Jersey Shore?”

I was out the door before MacAullif made it around the desk.

26

I
T WAS A ONE
-
STORY
building of mortar and brick, not the most imposing edifice in the world. The neon sign out front that said Police could just as easily have said Diner or Motel. I walked in the front door, found myself in an outer office where a single cop in uniform manned a cluttered desk. There was a counter along one wall, and a corridor leading to various inner offices and/or holding cells.

The cop at the desk looked up. “Can I help you?”

“You have some evidence for Sergeant Fuller, Ft. Lee.”

The cop, who gave the impression he was used to being given the runaround by plainclothes cops, heaved a sigh. “No one told me about it.”

“Figures. I knew you wouldn’t know. But just try talking back, huh? I mean, something like this you could fax it, right? Or email it as an attachment. As a gif or a tiff or a jpeg. You know, anyone could do it. Well, I couldn’t do it, but my wife could. But, no, people do it this way because they’ve always done it this way. So I gotta drive down here. They could at least tell you so you had it ready.”

“Had what ready?”

“Photo of the fatal bullet.”

“What fatal bullet?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Hang on, I got it written down.” I fished a notebook out of my jacket pocket, riffled through it. “Here we go. Vinnie Carbone. Apparently it’s a homicide.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a homicide, all right.”

“So you got it?”

“No one told me about this.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I gotta call somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see, who caught this one?”

There was a microphone on the desk. He pulled it to him, pressed a button. “Hey, Sammy?” he said, and released the button.

A moment later the radio crackled. “Yeah?”

“Vinnie Carbone case.”

“What about it?”

“Is that your case?”

“Fred Seager’s lead.”

“Guy from Ft. Lee wants to see the fatal bullet.”

“Come again?”

“Guy from Ft. Lee wants a photograph of the fatal bullet.”

“Why?”

“See if there’s any connection to a case he’s got there.”

“So give it to him.”

“Where is it?”

“Huh?”

“Where’s the photograph?”

“You’ll have to ask Fred.”

“He won’t be in till tonight.”

“Ask him tonight.”

“Guy’s here now.”

“So call over to the lab. They should have copies.”

The cop released the microphone, picked up the phone.

“I appreciate this,” I said.

The cop shrugged. “Just routine.”

The door banged open and two plainclothes cops came in. I knew they were cops because they were dressed like me, and they acted bored. The taller, wirier of the two barged right by the desk without so much as a second glance. His partner, short and fat, threw the cop at the desk a nod. A rookie mistake, it gave the guy the chance to pass the buck.

“Hey, Charlie,” he called. “You guys know anything about the Vinnie Carbone case?”

The tall cop turned back. “What about it?”

“Cop in Ft. Lee’s asking. Wants to see the fatal bullet.”

“Oh, does he now?” The tall cop, who seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, fixed his eyes on me. “Who are you?”

I put up my hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. Sergeant Fuller wants to see the bullet. Not the bullet. Photo of the bullet. I’m here to pick it up.”

“Why are you here to pick it up?”

“You think Fuller’s gonna drive down himself?”

“What’s his angle?”

“He’s got his own murder case.”

“I thought he got the guy who did it.”

“He made bail.”

“Really? Fuckin’ system. Well, good luck getting your picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t believe the red tape.”

“Christ, yes,” the fat cop said. “Remember when we had to get that gun from Trenton?”

“What gun from Trenton?”

“It was the murder weapon here, but they didn’t want to surrender it because it was used in an armed robbery there.”

“Oh, right.”

“Same thing here. Nobody’s gonna hand over the murder weapon.”

The wheels were starting to come off, the fabrication spinning out of control. “But there was no murder weapon here,” I said. “Just a bullet. Fuller’s got the murder weapon. The point was to see whether the bullet down here came from it.”

“He thinks the crimes are related?”

“He doesn’t think the crimes are related. There’s no reason to think the crimes are related. The only conceivable reason to think the crimes are related is to ruin my afternoon by making me drive down here to prove that they’re not.” I put up my hands again. “Sorry. Don’t mean to get upset. It’s just the mountains of bullshit they make you swim through. Not you guys. The system.”

“You work with Fuller?”

“That’s not that way I’d phrase it.”

The tall cop seemed amused. “What do you think of him?”

I shrugged. “Guy’s a bit of a dickhead.”

Tall cop laughed. “Hey, Rick,” he said to the guy at the desk. “What you say you help our buddy here out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Call the lab, see if they got the photo he wants. If they do, tell ’em Sergeant Stark wants it and you’re sending a detective to pick it up. They’ll give it to you if they think it’s for me. Another county, they’ll make a fuss.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet. They may not have it.”

I should have let that go. I couldn’t help myself. “Why not?”

“There’s no gun. They got a gun, they’re firing test bullets, comparing them, having a grand old time. If there’s nothing to compare it with, it isn’t urgent. Unless someone’s specifically asking, there’s no rush getting it done.”

Rick hung up the phone. “They got it. They’ll hold it for you at the desk.”

I got in the car with mixed feelings. I’d expedited getting the photo. But I’d met far more New Jersey policemen than could possibly be good for my health.

At least I hadn’t had to give them a name.

27

T
HE CRIME LAB IN
T
RENTON
was in the top floor of a four-story office building in midtown with no place to park. I cruised around, found a parking meter three blocks down. It was a half-hour meter of all things, but how long could this possibly take? Nonetheless, I stepped along briskly on my way to the lab.

Good thing I did. The cop at the desk, who was supposed to have my photo, looked at me as if I were a creature from another planet.

“I’m here to pick up a photo of the fatal bullet in the Vinnie Carbone case. I was told it would be at the desk.”

“Who told you that?”

“Rick. The desk cop. He called over to make sure.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m picking up the photo for Sergeant Stark.”

“Uh huh.” The cop had a computer on his desk. He typed into it. Shook his head. “Not his case.”

“I know it’s not his case. He just wants to see the bullet.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. He asked me to pick up the photo. He had Rick call over here to make sure there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“And who are you?” he repeated.

I wasn’t sure which was worse, giving my name, or making one up. But if Fuller got wind of this, the name Hastings would be a red flag. “Hailey,” I said. “And what’s your name?”

That caught him up short. “Why?”

“If Stark doesn’t get his photo I need to know who to refer him to.”

There went my last chance of ever being his friend. The not-so-veiled-threat jarred him out of his smug complacency. “Hold on here. I didn’t say you can’t have the photo. Before I give anything out I want to make damn sure who it’s going to.”

“It’s going to Sergeant Stark. He was under the impression you’d give him anything he wanted.”

“Him, I would. You I don’t know from Adam.”

“So call Rick.”

That had him stymied. It was clearly the thing to do, but he didn’t want to do it because it was my suggestion. He reluctantly picked up the phone and punched in the number. “Rick Daniels?… Oh? Where is he?… Hi, Sy. Listen, what do you know about some photo for Sergeant Stark?… How the hell should I know what photo? Guy here says Stark sent him to pick it up. Detective—what’s your name again?”

“Hailey.”

“Detective Hailey … You never heard of him? Well, that’s hardly a ringing endorsement. Hang on.…” The cop cupped the mouthpiece with some satisfaction. “They know nothing about it and they never heard of you.”

“Of course not. I spoke to Stark and Daniels. You’re talking to the wrong guys.”

“I don’t care who I’m talking to. They don’t know you from Adam.”

Uh oh. I could feel my knees getting weak. Envisioned handcuffs being clamped on my wrists. The expression “caught red-handed” came to mind.

I stuck out my chin. “What’s the matter,” I said. “Didn’t they take the photo?”

That caught him off guard. “Huh?”

“Stark told me it would be like that. They got no gun so there’s no rush on the fatal bullet. They may not have even taken the pictures yet.”

He glowered at me. “Who the hell you think you are, walk in here, throw around charges like that?”

“Sergeant tells me to pick up the picture, they even call ahead to make sure it’s okay. Not only is it
not
okay, the way you’re acting I don’t think they even got a picture of the bullet.”

A technical-looking type came out the other door. I know that’s stereotyping, but the guy had on what could have passed for scrubs if they had been a different shade, and he was carrying his hands as if he had just washed them and was heading into an operating room, though he obviously wasn’t.

“Maybe you know,” I said. “You know anything about the pictures of the Vinnie Carbone bullet?”

He smiled. “Who are you?”

Why did everyone have to ask me that? “I’m Detective Hailey. Sergeant Stark wants a photo of the fatal bullet.”’

“Why, did he find the gun?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You talk to him in person?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he must not have found a gun, or he’d have sent it over.”

“You have the photo?”

“Not my department.” He looked at the cop at the desk. “You know anything about this?”

“Just what you do. Guy waltzes in here, wants the evidence, doesn’t want to give anything in return.”

I couldn’t help asking. “What do you want in return?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sandwich would be nice. Brisket on white with lettuce and mayo.”

My mouth fell open. The guy had to be pulling my leg. I mean, wasn’t he?

The technician said, “Lemme see if Charlie knows anything about this.”

“Thanks. I sure don’t,” the desk cop said.

The technician went back the way he came.

I wandered around looking at the walls, hoping to distract the cop from asking me any more questions. Luckily, he didn’t seem to give a damn. With the technician taking over, it was no longer his problem, no skin off his nose.

The good news was the technician was back in minutes.

The bad news was his hands were empty.

“Wally says it’s not Stark’s case.”

“Yeah, I know. Stark just wanted to see it.”

“Well, Wally made a copy, left it at the desk.”

The cop at the desk said, “He didn’t leave it with me.”

“Right,” I said, rather testily. “He left it with the other guy. So where is it?”

The cop’s chin came up. “Hey, you want it or not?”

“I want it, I want it. Jeez, such a simple thing, suddenly it’s a federal case. So, where would he have left it?”

“I have no idea.”

“How about that manila envelope in the Out basket?”

I picked it up, turned it over.

It said “Stark.”

“There you go,” I said.

The cop looked at me. “Just cause it says “Stark” doesn’t mean anything. You want me to turn it over to you, I need some identification.”

I had no identification in the name of Hailey. Even if I did, it wouldn’t have identified me as a police officer. I eyed the door, weighed my chances if I ran for it. They were not good. Even if I made it to my car, they’d be sure to get the license number.

While I was thinking that, the cop picked up the manila envelope, unclasped the prongs, and opened the flap. He reached in, pulled out an eight-by-ten color photograph showing the striations on a bullet.

“I guess that’s it,” it said.

He shoved it back in the envelope, closed the flap, and handed it to me.

28

T
HE BALLISTICS EXPERT WASN’T HAPPY
. “You’re not a cop?”

“No.”

“And you want me to compare a bullet?”

“I want you to fire a bullet through this gun, compare it to the bullet in this picture.”

The photo was an edited version of the one I’d gotten from the lab. The heading with the case, name, number, and jurisdiction had been cut off, as had the signature of the lab technician who had taken the photograph. In my humble opinion they were not necessary. After all, I was only dealing with one bullet.

“I’m studying forensics. I have a homework assignment on identifying bullets.”

“And you want me to do it for you?”

“I don’t have the equipment. I need a picture on a comparison microscope. I’ll write the paper.”

“But you want me to line up the bullet so it matches.”

“Not at all. I want you to compare the bullet and tell me
if
it matches. If it does, I’ll have a lot to write. If it doesn’t, I’ll have a lot to write, it just won’t be as easy.”

“You think the bullet will match?”

“Frankly, I think it won’t. But I need a comparison to write the paper around. Can you do it?”

The expert was younger than I would have expected, but then everyone is these days. He cocked his head, said, “All bullshit aside, what’s the story here?”