Bread (87th Precinct) Read online

  The Ancient Skulls were not all as old as their title proclaimed, but they nonetheless ranged in age from eighteen to twenty-six, which meant that they were not juvenile offenders and could therefore be questioned in a police station. Nobody had ever told the cops in this city exactly where a juvenile offender should be interrogated. Usually, they took any suspect juvenile to a part of the building that was not contaminated by various and sundry sordid types, thereby giving lip service to the ruling—strange are the ways of the Law. The Ancient Skulls, of course, were entitled to a recitation and explanation of their rights, and they were entitled to maintain silence if they so chose, and they were also entitled to legal counsel whether or not they decided to answer any questions. Miranda-Escobedo, the Supreme Court decision that granted all these rights, was not the hindrance some police officers claimed it to be. In fact, a survey among law-enforcement officers around the country had revealed that as many confessions had been obtained since the Miranda-Escobedo decision as before, without the use of backroom, third-degree techniques.

  Avery Evans, the leader of The Ancient Skulls, was the oldest member of the gang, twenty-six going on twenty-seven. He was also the smartest, and presumably the toughest. He maintained that the police were making some kind of mistake, and he said he would freely answer any and all questions they asked him. He had nothing to hide. The Ancient Skulls had always cooperated with the police, and he was certainly willing to cooperate with them now. He advised the other members of the gang— or at least those members present, it being estimated that there were a hundred and twelve Ancient Skulls residing in Isola and another fifty-some-odd in Riverhead—that they, likewise, could answer any questions the cops put to them. Avery Evans was cool, smart, tough, supremely confident, and the leader of a proud and noble band. He did not know, of course, that the police had a tape recording of what he and his proud and noble followers had done to Elizabeth Benjamin.

  “You still haven’t told me what this is all about, man,” he said.

  He was sitting in the Interrogation Room at the 83rd, at a long table facing a one-way mirror, sometimes called a two-way mirror—stranger and stranger are the ways of the Law. Those cops who called it a one-way mirror did so on the grounds that it only reflected on one side, whereas the other side was a clear pane of glass through which you could observe the person looking into the mirror. One way you looked into it, one way you looked through it—hence a one-way mirror. But there were other cops who called it a two-way mirror because of its double role as looking glass and glass for looking. You could not reasonably expect cops, who couldn’t even agree on the interpretation of Miranda-Escobedo after all these years, to agree on what the hell to call a one-way-two-way mirror. The important thing was that any suspect looking into the mirror, which hung conspicuously on the wall of the otherwise bare-walled Interrogation Room, knew immediately that he was looking into a trick mirror and (nine times out of ten) being photographed through it from the adjacent room. Which is just what was happening to Avery Evans, with his complete knowledge. But, of course, he had nothing to hide. He was convinced the cops had nothing on him. Let them take his picture through their phony mirror, let them run through all the nonsense. In half an hour he’d be back dancing at the old clubhouse.

  Ollie—who was running the interrogation, since this was his corral, so to speak, even though it differed only slightly in decrepitude from the squadroom of the 87th—immediately said, “Before we start, let me make sure again that you understand your rights as we explained them to you, and that you’re willing to answer questions without a lawyer here. Is that right?”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” Avery said. “I got nothing to hide, man.”

  “Okay, then, you want to give me your full name?”

  “Avery Moses Evans.”

  “Where do you live, Ave?”

  “On Ainsley Avenue—1194 Ainsley, Apartment 32.”

  “Live alone?”

  “I live with my mother.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Eloise Evans.”

  “Father living?”

  “They’re separated,” Avery said.

  “Where were you born, Ave?”

  “Right here. This city.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be twenty-seven two days before Christmas.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I am at present unemployed.”

  “Are you a member of the gang called The Ancient Skulls?”

  “It’s a club,” Avery said.

  “Sure. Are you a member?”

  “I’m the president,” Avery said.

  “Is Jamie Holder a member?”

  “Jamison Holder, that’s right. Good man,” Avery said, and grinned.

  “Where were you and Jamie Holder tonight between five and five-thirty P.M.?”

  “I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Try to remember exactly,” Ollie said.

  “Hanging around.”

  “Hanging around where?”

  “Probably shooting pool.”

  “Where would that have been?”

  “Ace Billiards. On Kruger Street.”

  “Anybody see you and Jamie there at that time?”

  “Lots of guys from the Skulls were there.”

  “Anybody besides members of your gang?”

  “Club.”

  “Anybody besides them?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t make a habit of finding out who’s in a place.”

  “Know anybody named Charlie Harrod?” Ollie asked, and tweaked his nose with his thumb and forefinger. This was the signal to begin a flanking attack, Ollie continuing the frontal assault while Carella and Hawes closed in from either side.

  “Never heard of him,” Avery said.

  “Elizabeth Benjamin?” Hawes asked. “Ever hear of her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Harrod was a junkie,” Carella said.

  “Yeah?” Avery said, and smiled. “I notice you used the past tense, man. Did he kick the habit?”

  “Yes, he kicked it,” Hawes said.

  “Good for him. We got no junkies in our club. I think you guys already know that. Ask any of the cops up here, they’ll tell you the Skulls are clean.”

  “Oh yeah, we know that,” Ollie said.

  “It’s a fact, man.”

  “But you never heard of Harrod, huh?”

  “Nope. All I know is if he kicked the habit, I’m proud of him. Too much junk in this neighborhood. That’s one thing you got to say about the Skulls, we’re doing our share to make this neighborhood a better place to live in.”

  “Oh, ain’t we all,” Ollie said, doing his now-famous W. C. Fields imitation, “ain’t we all.”

  “And another thing,” Avery said, “it’s the Skulls, and only the Skulls, who’re always negotiating with the other clubs to keep the peace around here. If it wasn’t for us, you guys would have your hands full. There’d be war all the goddamn time. I think you owe us at least a little gratitude for that.”

  “Oh, sure we do,” Ollie said.

  None of the cops bothered to mention that if there were no street gangs, there would be no wars, and therefore no need for any of the gangs to negotiate for peace. Each of the men questioning Avery knew that today’s gangs were far more dangerous than those existing twenty years ago, mainly because the current version came fully equipped with an ideology. The ideology provided a built-in justification for mayhem. If you’re doing something because it’s helping the neighborhood, why then, you can do any damn thing you like. Moreover, you can do it with a sense of pride.

  “Where were you this afternoon, a little before twelve?” Hawes asked.

  “Man, you guys sure expect a person to pinpoint his whereabouts, don’t you?”

  “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Hawes said.

  “I got nothing to hide,” Avery said. “I was probably down at the clubhouse.”

  “A
nybody see you there?”

  “Oh sure, lots of the guys…”

  “Besides members of the gang.”

  “Only club members are allowed in the clubhouse.”

  “By the clubhouse, do you mean the basement we found you in tonight?” Ollie asked.

  “That’s the clubhouse,” Avery said.

  The three detectives had moved closer to him, and they now formed a somewhat claustrophobic circle around his chair. They began to interrogate him more rapidly now, firing their questions one after the other, Avery at first turning to look at each of them in turn, and then finally directing all of his answers to Ollie, who stood directly in front of him.

  “You got an annex to that clubhouse?” Ollie asked.

  “No.”

  “Where do you keep your arsenal?” Carella asked.

  “We don’t have no arsenal, man. We’re a peace-loving club.”

  “No guns?” Hawes asked.

  “No knives?” Carella asked.

  “No ball bats?” Ollie asked.

  “None of that stuff.”

  “You wouldn’t keep a stash of guns someplace else, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Someplace other than the clubhouse?”

  “No.”

  “Or knives?”

  “No.”

  “Charlie Harrod was stabbed today.”

  “Didn’t know him.”

  “He was also beaten to death.”

  “Still don’t know him.”

  “You familiar with that Kruger Street area?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “You just told us you shoot pool in Ace Billiards.”

  “That’s right, I do. Every now and then.”

  “That’s next door to where Charlie lived.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Apartment 6A, 1512 Kruger.”

  “What about it?”

  “Ever in that apartment?”

  “Never.”

  “Ever see Elizabeth Benjamin in the neighborhood?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you know Charlie Harrod was a junkie?”

  “Didn’t know what he was. Didn’t know the man, you dig?”

  “Ever beat up a junkie?”

  “Never.”

  “That’s a lie,” Ollie said. “We had you punks in here six months ago for beating up a pusher named Shoemouth Kendricks.”

  “That was a pusher, man. That wasn’t no junkie. Junkies are sick people. Pushers are what makes them sick.” Avery paused. “How come you know about that, anyway? You weren’t the cop who handled it.”

  Ollie reached behind him, lifted a manila folder from the desk, and threw it into Avery’s lap. “This is the file on your little club, Mr. President. It gets thicker every day. We know all about you punks, and we know you stink.”

  “Well now, I wouldn’t say exactly that, Mr. Weeks,” Avery said, and grinned, and handed the folder back to Ollie.

  “We know, for example,” Ollie said, “that you keep your arsenal in the apartment of one Melissa Beam at 211 North 23rd, and that it consists of fourteen handguns, two dozen hand grenades, six World War Two bayonets and sheaths, and any number of switchblades, baseball bats, and sawed-off broom handles.”

  “That’s a lie, man,” Avery said. “Who told you that jive?”

  “A member of another little club called The Royal Savages.”

  “Those jerks?” Avery said disdainfully. “They wouldn’t know an arsenal from their own assholes. Anyway, if you thought all that stuff was over there on Twenty-third, how come you didn’t raid it?”

  “Because the last time you were up here, Mr. President, you made all kinds of law-abiding promises to a detective named Thomas Boyd, and in return he made a deal not to hassle you or your club.”

  “That’s right, we are law-abiding,” Avery said. “We keep the peace.”

  “Detective Boyd is over on Twenty-third right this minute,” Ollie said, “busting into that apartment. I hope he doesn’t find any weapons we can trace back to you and your gang. Like, for example, the knife that was used on Charlie Harrod.”

  “He won’t, don’t worry,” Avery said, but he seemed a trifle shaken now. He cleared his throat.

  “What do you call Jamie Holder?” Carella said.

  “I call him Holder.”

  “You call him by his last name?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How come?”

  “Jamie sounds like a pansy. He likes being called Holder. It’s a strong name. He’s a big man, and a proud man. Holder fits him good.”

  “Ever hear of voiceprints?” Hawes asked.

  “Nope.”

  “They’re like fingerprints,” Carella said.

  “We can compare them. We can make positive identifications of voices.”

  “Ain’t that interesting,” Avery said.

  “We’ve got your voice on tape,” Ollie said.

  “You been taping this?” Avery said, and looked quickly around for a hidden recorder. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

  “No, no, we haven’t taped this,” Ollie said, and smiled.

  “We’ve got a tape, though,” Carella said, and smiled.

  “You and Holder are the stars on it,” Hawes said, and smiled.

  “Want to hear it, Avery?”

  “Sure, why not?” Avery said, and shrugged, and folded his arms across his chest.

  Ollie immediately left the squadroom. The tape recorder was in the Clerical Office down the hall, and he could have picked it up in thirty seconds flat, but he dallied for a full five minutes before returning to where Avery was sitting in his straight-backed chair, arms folded. Neither of the other two detectives had said a word to him while Ollie was gone. Now Ollie put the recorder on the desk, gave Avery a sympathetic look that translated as “Man, are you in trouble,” and stabbed at the PLAY button. Casually, the detectives stood around Avery Evans and watched him as he listened to the tape.

  —Hawes? You better get here fast. The apartment. I did what you said, I stayed here. And now they’ve come to get me. The ones who killed Charlie. They’re outside on the fire escape. They’re gonna smash in here as soon as they work up the courage.

  Avery blinked when he heard the sound of glass shattering. His arms still folded across his chest, he leaned forward only slightly when he heard the next voices:

  —Get away from that phone!

  —Holder, watch it!

  —She’s…

  —I’ve got her!

  Elizabeth screamed, and Avery began to sweat. The perspiration popped out on his forehead and ran down over his temples and cheeks as he heard the click of the phone being replaced on its cradle, the sounds of the chair being overturned, the tattoo of feet on linoleum, Elizabeth sobbing, the brutal sounds of flesh yielding to weapons.

  —Oh, please, no.

  —Shut up, bitch!

  —Holder, get her legs!

  —Please, please.

  There was another scream, and the sweat rolled over Avery’s jaw and into his beard, moved inexorably in rivulets down the corded muscles of his neck, and was sopped up by the white T-shirt under the blue denim gang jacket. He listened to the beating, blinked when he heard the voices again:

  —Come on, that’s enough.

  —Holder, lay off, you’re gonna kill her!

  —Let’s go, let’s go.

  —What’s that?

  —Let’s get the hell out of here, man.

  He listened to the running footsteps and the tinkle of the broken window shards, and turned his head away when Elizabeth moaned. The tape went silent.

  Ollie cut off the machine. “Recognize any of those voices?”

  Avery did not answer.

  “The girl’s alive,” Hawes said. “She’ll identify you.”

  “How come you didn’t finish her off? Figure a scare was good enough?”

  Avery did not answer.

  “Did you think Harrod was a pusher?” />
  “Did his expensive clothes and Caddy fool you?”

  “Did you think the girl was dealing, too?”

  Avery still said nothing.

  “Who hung up the phone, Ave?”

  “We’ll get fingerprints from the receiver, you know.”

  “And we’ll compare the voices on that tape with voiceprint of you and Holder.”

  “And the rest of your pals, too.”

  “And we’ll compare the white paint scrapings under Harrod’s fingernails with the paint on those jackets you wear.”

  “How many of you jumped Harrod?”

  “You stupid little punk!” Ollie shouted. “You think you can run around killing and hurting anybody you want? We’re gonna lock you up and throw away the key, you hear me, Mr. President?”

  “I want a lawyer,” Avery said.

  It was still Friday. It had been Friday forever.

  Legal Aid sent over an attorney to make certain that none of The Ancient Skulls’ rights were being violated. At the same time the detectives—figuring they had hooked into real meat—called the District Attorney’s office and asked that a man be sent over before they messed up the legal ramifications by asking any further questions. By 11:00 P.M. everyone was assembled. By ten minutes to 12:00 they all realized they were going to get nowhere, since the Skulls’ appointed attorney advised them to keep silent. The man from the DA’s office felt they had a good case, nonetheless, and so the Skulls were booked for acting in concert on one count of homicide and one count of assault, and were taken downstairs to the detention cells to await transportation to the Criminal Courts Building for arraignment. The lawyers shook hands with each other and the detectives, and everybody left the squadroom at a few minutes past midnight. It was Saturday at last. Ollie Weeks had cracked his case in less than twelve hours, and one might have expected him to go home and sleep the sleep of angels secure in the knowledge that he had performed admirably and well.

  Carella’s bedside phone rang in the middle of the night. He fumbled for the receiver, lifted it, and said, “Hullo,” not sure he was talking into the right end.

  “Carella? This is Ollie Weeks.”

  “Ollie?” Carella said. “Oh, hullo, Ollie. How are you? What time is it, Ollie?”

  “I don’t know what time it is,” Ollie said. “Carella, I can’t sleep.”

  “That’s too bad,” Carella said, and squinted at the luminous dial on the alarm clock near his bed. It was ten minutes past 4:00. “Have you tried counting sheep, Ollie?”