The Big Heat

Chapter 17

The news spread slowly, almost casually at first, from one cop to another, from a police captain to a magistrate, and then it picked up speed and flew through the night, from the top to the bottom, from one end of the city to the other. Telephones rang shrilly. Lights went on in homes on the Main Line, in downtown hotels, in homes and apartments in all sections of the city. Men with suddenly stricken faces looked at worried wives, or bored, sleepy girls, and then some of them took sedatives and others took stimulants, and a few began packing bags and checking plane and train schedules. The lucky ones, the great honest majority, grinned at the news and went back to bed with the pleasant realization that heads would be rolling by tomorrow night.

The big heat was coming...

At nine-thirty the following morning a lawyer named William Copelli walked into the Director of Public Safety’s office on the fourth floor of the Hall. Counselor Copelli was a thin balding man in his early forties, with quick eyes and an earnest, school-teacherish expression. He was slightly nervous, and kept clearing his throat with short, barking coughs. There were six reporters and three photographers at the lawyer’s heels.

Standing beside the Director’s desk was Inspector Cranston, clean-shaven, well-rested, buttons and braid shining. There was just the trace of a smile on his straight, hard mouth as he nodded to the newspapermen. He had been appointed Acting Superintendent of police at nine o’clock that morning. That had been the Hall’s reaction to Deery’s note. Reform was in the air, and they were beating the papers to the punch by putting Cranston in charge of the police department. When things cooled off they might ease him back to the Sunshine Detail. Cranston knew this, of course, and that accounted for the little smile on his hard old mouth.

The Director, a tired, graying man, announced Cranston’s appointment to the reporters, and then glanced at Counselor Copelli. “What was it you wanted to see me about?” he said, with a little sigh.

The lawyer opened his briefcase and removed a sheaf of typed papers. “My late client, Mrs. Agnes Deery, requested that I read this statement in your presence, Mr. Director,” he said, in a voice which grew a bit stronger with each word. “Agnes Deery, who was shot and killed last night, wanted this document to be made public in the event of her murder.” Copelli cleared his throat sharply, and pulled the knot of his tie down from his prominent Adam’s apple. “This statement was written by her late husband, Thomas Deery, some time before he committed suicide. Mrs. Deery stipulated that if it were impossible to read this in your presence, then copies of it should be sent to all the newspapers in the city, to the Mayor, and to the President of the City Council. However, since you’ve granted me the opportunity to fulfill Mrs. Deery’s first request, I shall commence the reading of her husband’s statement at this time.”

“Please read it, Counselor,” the Director said, with an uneasy sigh.

Copelli cleared his throat once more, and the reporters crowded closer to him, copy paper and pencils ready. A flash bulb exploded.

“Hold that for a while,” the Director said, as Copelli started nervously. “Let’s wait until he’s through for the pictures.”

“Thank you,” Copelli said. He glanced once at the Director, and then began reading Thomas Francis Deery’s suicide note in a clear, firm voice...

Forty-five minutes later, Copelli had finished, the Director had made a statement (“This must be looked into, of course”), and the reporters were trying to get quotes from Cranston. He waved a hand for silence, and he was no longer smiling.

“Just settle down now, boys,” he said. “This isn’t going to be any Roman Holiday, so get that out of your heads. Don’t expect miracles. Put that in your papers. When the public interest has been sold out for decades you can’t clean things up in a day — or a year, for that matter. But I’ll tell you what you can do in one day — you can start! And today is the day we’re starting.” He glanced around the room, his face as hard and bright as a well-worn shield. “What we’ve heard isn’t evidence. They are accusations, well-founded ones it appears, against the top officers of this city. Maybe it’s all true; maybe only a half, or a fifth of it is true. Our job is to find out. My recommendation to the Mayor will be for a Special Grand Jury, and a special prosecutor to be appointed by the Governor in Harrisburg. And let me say once more, don’t expect miracles. You won’t wake up tomorrow and find yourself living in a clean, well-run city. That takes time and will. We’ve got to shake off a lot of bad habits. Corruption has a way of ruining everything it touches. The people of a city are corrupted, too. Instead of using their privilege as voters to fire the bastards who sell out their interests, they shrug and say, ‘Well, what can you do about it?’ or, ‘Well, that’s human nature, I guess.’ Human nature, my foot. That’s the voter’s apology for his own laziness. Okay, that’s all I’ve got to say.” Cranston smiled slightly. “I could have saved time by saying I’m going to do what I’ve always done as a cop: Arrest people who break the law.”

“How about horse rooms?” a reporter said.

Inspector Cranston glanced at his watch. “Well, if you want to make a last sentimental bet, or take one more crack at your bookies, you’ve got just another hour. I’ll buy a drink for the man who can find a handbook open in this town by noon today. That’s all boys. Clear out now, we’ve got work to do.”

They charged out then and down the hall to the phones...

Bannion sat in the white, sterile waiting room, his big hands folded in his lap, and stared down at the black-and-white linoleum floor. Trim, busy nurses went past him soundlessly on rubber-soled shoes, giving him only a quick, perfunctory glance; he had been waiting there all night, ever since the girl named Debby Some-thing-or-other had been brought in, and he was as much a fixture now as the wicker furniture, the pictures on the walls.

It was ten-thirty in the morning when a tired, exasperated doctor came in, and said, “Well, Mr. Bannion, I don’t think you can see her yet.”

“How is she?”

The doctor shook his head. “We can’t do much for her, I’m afraid. She’s hemorrhaging internally, and we haven’t been able to stop it. That often happens when people try to shoot themselves in the heart. They miss and make a mess of it. Damn, wouldn’t you think people would know where their hearts are?”

“Yes, I suppose you would,” Bannion said, and something in his voice made the doctor slightly uncomfortable. “When can I see her?”

“Well, that’s hard to say. She’s resting now. Maybe in a couple of hours, maybe tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, I’ll be back,” Bannion said.

“Say, what did she shoot that Deery woman for?” the doctor said.

“She was doing me a favor,” Bannion said. “You, too. And everybody else who lives in the city.”

The doctor didn’t get it, but something in Bannion’s voice decided him against pressing the point. Also, he was a busy man and he didn’t have too much time to spend on young blondes who tried to shoot themselves in the heart and missed...

It was nearly four o’clock when Bannion got to the Hall. He went up to Cranston’s office and found the old man alone at his desk.

“Well, I was just about to send out the alarm for you,” Cranston said.

Bannion sat down and pushed his hat back on his forehead. “What’s been going on?” he said.

“You didn’t look at a paper?”

“No, I was busy.”

“Well, so were we. It was a very profitable day, thanks to you, Dave.”

“That’s good. What about the big boys? Lagana and Stone?”

“We won’t have to worry about Lagana, Dave.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

Bannion shrugged tiredly. “You might know he’d cop an out. Well, the suckers in hell can get some action tonight. What happened?”

“He got the news of Deery’s note last night. He worked at his desk all night, making calls, trying to find out how bad it was, I imagine. This morning he lay down to rest. Wasn’t feeling too well, his wife said. He never woke up.”

“Heart, eh?”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

Bannion looked over Cranston’s head and out at the city, brightening to nighttime life now as the street lights went on, and automobile headlights cut through the gray gloom of the streets.

“So he’s dead, eh?” he said. “That leaves the organization.”

“It will die, too. If they leave me here for six months, if the public stays awake, it will die. Take a look at the papers. The Ins don’t have a chance in the elections. Some honest men are coming, and by God it’s about time. Deery’s note was the bombshell, all right. You can take a bow, Dave.”

“Thanks.”

Cranston raised his eyebrows. “You did it alone, didn’t you?”

“I thought so at first,” Bannion said. “Lonely figure against the mob. That wasn’t it, Inspector. I had help, all I could use. From Lucy Carroway, from a detective in Radnor named Parnell, from you and Burke, and from a colored woman in Chester.” He shrugged, smiling slightly. “And there were some G.I. friends of mine, and a priest and a girl named Debby. Hell, Inspector, I had a mob with me. All the decent people in the city, I guess.”

“I’m glad you see that,” Cranston said.

“Where’s Stone, by the way?”

“We haven’t located him yet. We have no reason to pick him up, but I want to keep a line on him. We need a warrant and an indictment first. We’ll get them, and we don’t move until we do.” There was a slight, unmistakable edge in his voice, and he met Bannion’s eyes squarely. “This is going to be legal, remember, Dave.”

“Why sure,” Bannion said. “He’s your baby.”

“Well, keep that in mind.”

Bannion smiled; his casual tone hadn’t fooled the old man. “Be sure you get him, Inspector.”

“I’ll get him, don’t you worry.”

Bannion stood up and they shook hands. “Get some sleep, Dave,” Cranston said.

“I’ve got nothing else on my mind. Goodnight, Inspector,” Bannion said.

Cranston watched him leave, and then he sat down and put in a call to Homicide. “I want to talk to Detective Burke,” he said.

He was frowning.