Ten Plus One

16

The man in the cage in the squadroom of the 88th Precinct was a raving lunatic. He was wearing dungarees and a tattered white shirt, and his hair was long and matted, and his eyes were wild. He climbed the sides of the small mesh prison like a monkey, peering out at the detectives in the room, snarling and spitting, rolling his eyes.

When Carella came into the room, the man in the cage shouted, “Here’s another one! Shoot the sinner!”

“That’s the man?” Carella asked Holt.

“That’s him, all right. Hey, Danny!” Holt called, and a detective sitting at one of the desks rose and walked to where Carella and Holt were standing.

“Steve Carella, Danny Shields.”

“Hi,” Shields said. “I think we met once, didn’t we? That fire over on Fourteenth?”

“I think so, yeah,” Carella said.

“Don’t go too near the cage,” Shields warned. “He spits.”

“Want to fill me in on it, Danny?” Carella said.

Shields shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. The beat cop called in about a half-hour ago—it was about a half-hour, huh, Freddie?”

“Yeah, about that,” Holt said.

“Told us some nut was up on the roof shooting down into the street. So Durante and me, we took the squeal, and he was still blasting away when we got there. I went up the hallway, and Durante took the building next door, to go up the roof, you know, catch him by surprise. By the time we got up there, he’d plugged two dames in the street. One was an old lady, the other was a pregnant woman. They’re both in the hospital now.” Shields shook his head. “I just spoke to the doctor on the phone. He thinks the pregnant one’s gonna die. The old lady has a chance, he says. That’s the way it always is, huh?”

“What happened on the roof, Danny?”

“Well, Durante opened fire from the next building, and I come in and got him from behind. He was some bundle, believe me. Look at him. He thinks he’s Tarzan.”

“Shoot the sinners!” the man in the cage yelled. “Shoot all the filthy sinners!”

“Did you get his weapon?”

“Yeah. It’s over there on the desk, tagged and ready to go.”

Carella glanced at the desk. “That looks like a .22,” he said.

“That’s what it is.”

“You can’t fire a .308 slug from that,” Carella said.

“Who said you could?”

“Well, what makes you think this is my boy?”

“We figured it was a chance. We been getting a lot of heat on this, Carella. The loot got a call from downtown only yesterday, asking if we was really helping you guys or just fooling around up here.”

“I don’t think he’s connected with it,” Carella said.

“Well, what do you want us to do?”

“Have you checked his apartment yet?”

“What apartment? He probably sleeps in the park.”

“Where’d he get a rifle?”

“We’re checking our stolen guns list now. There was a couple of hockshops busted into, night before last. Maybe he done it.”

“Have you questioned him yet?”

“Questioned him? He’s got a screw loose, all he does is yell about sinners and spit at anybody who goes near him. Look at him, the crazy bastard.” Shields looked at him, and then burst out laughing. “Jesus,” he said, “just like a monkey, look at him.”

“Well, if you find out where he lives, run a check for me, will you? We’re looking for any gun that might have fired a .308 Remington.”

“That’s a lot of guns, buddy,” Shields said.

“Yeah, but it’s not a .22.”

“That’s for sure.”

“You’d better call Buenavista and tell them to warm up a bed in the psycho ward.”

“I already done it,” Shields said. “Not your boy, huh?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Too bad. I’ll tell you the truth, Carella, we were a little anxious to get rid of him.”

“Why? Nice sweet old guy like that.”

“Well, we got a problem, you see.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Who’s gonna take him out of that cage?” Shields asked.

Margaret Buff Redfield was waiting for Carella when he got back to the squadroom.

She was thirty-nine years old, and she looked tired. Her hair was brown, and her eyes were brown, and she wore a shade of lipstick too red for her complexion, and a dress that hung limply from her figure.

She took Carella’s hand wearily when her husband introduced them, and then looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to crack her across the face. Suddenly Carella had the notion that the woman had been hit before, and often. He glanced at the soft-spoken Redfield, and then turned his attention back to Margaret.

“Mrs. Redfield,” he said, “there are some questions we’d like to ask you.”

“All right,” Margaret said.

Intuitively Carella turned to Redfield and said, “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to your wife privately.”

“Why?” Redfield said. “We’re married. We have no secrets.”

“I know that, sir, and I respect it, believe me. But we’ve found that people will often be very nervous in the presence of their husbands or wives, and we try to conduct an interview privately, if it’s at all possible.”

“I see,” Redfield said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well…”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll ask Miscolo to show you to a room down the hall. There are some magazines in there, and you can smoke if you—”

“I don’t smoke,” Redfield said.

“Or perhaps Miscolo can bring you a cup of coffee.”

“Thank you, I don’t want a—”

“Miscolo!” Carella yelled, and Miscolo came running at the double. “Would you show Mr. Redfield down the hall, please, and make him comfortable?”

“Right this way, sir,” Miscolo said.

Reluctantly, Redfield got out of his chair and followed Miscolo out of the squadroom. Carella waited until he was certain Redfield was out of earshot, and then he turned to Margaret and quickly said, “Tell me about the party in 1940.”

“What?” she said, startled.

“The party at Randy Norden’s house.”

“How…how did you know about that?” she asked.

“We know about it.”

“Does my husband know?” she asked quickly.

“We didn’t ask him, Mrs. Redfield.”

“You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Of course not. We only want to know about David Arthur Cohen, Mrs. Redfield. Can you tell me how he behaved that night?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She moved back on the seat of the chair, and her voice came from her throat like a whine, as though he were holding a club and were threatening her with it. Her eyes had widened, and she visibly moved deeper into the chair, her back climbing it, her shoulders pulling away from him.

“What did he do, Mrs. Redfield?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and again the words were a whine, and her eyes were beginning to blink uncertainly now.

“Mrs. Redfield, I’m not asking you what you did that night. I only want to know—”

“I didn’t do anything!” she shouted, and she gripped the sides of the chair with both hands, as though knowing he would hit her now, and bracing herself for the shock.

“No one said you did, Mrs. Redfield. I only want to know if anything happened that might have caused Cohen to—”

“Nothing happened,” she said. “I want to go home now. I want my husband.”

“Mrs. Redfield, we think we have a murderer downstairs. He claims he had nothing to do with the murders, but if we can find something, anything, that’ll start him talking…”

“I don’t know anything. I want to go home.”

“Mrs. Redfield, I don’t want to have to…”

“I don’t know anything.”

“…embarrass you, or make this difficult for you. But unless we can find something concrete to—”

“I told you, I don’t know. I want to go home. I don’t know.”

“Mrs. Redfield,” Carella said evenly, “we know everything that happened that night at Randy Norden’s. Everything. Helen Struthers told us about it, and so did Cohen.”

“I didn’t do anything. They did it.”

“Who?”

“The…the others.”

“What others?”

“Helen and Blanche. Not me. Not me.”

“What did they do?”

“They couldn’t get me to do it,” Margaret said. “I wouldn’t, and they couldn’t force me. I knew what was right. I was only seventeen, but I certainly knew what was right and what was wrong. It was the others, you see.”

“You had no part of anything that happened, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why didn’t you leave, Mrs. Redfield?”

“Because they…they held me. All of them. Even the girls. They held me while…Listen, I didn’t even want to be in the play. I was Mag, the barmaid, she was a barmaid, not a girl like the others, my mother wouldn’t let me be in the play at first because of the kind of girls they were supposed to be, I was only in the play because Randy talked me into it. But I didn’t know the kind of boy Randy was until the night of the party, when he was with Helen. That’s what started it all, his being with Helen, and everybody drinking so much…”

“Were you drunk, Mrs. Redfield?”

“No, yes, I don’t know. I must have been drunk. If I’d been sober, I wouldn’t have let them…”

Margaret stopped.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“Mrs. Redfield, do you want to tell this to a policewoman?”

“I have nothing to tell.”

“I’ll get a policewoman.”

“I have nothing to say to her. What happened wasn’t my fault. I’ve never…do you think I wanted what happened?”

“Miscolo, get me a policewoman, on the double!” Carella yelled.

“The others did, but not me. I was drunk, or they wouldn’t have been able to hold me. I was only seventeen. I didn’t know about such things, because I came from a good home. If I hadn’t been drunk…I wouldn’t have let them ruin my life. If I’d known the kind of boy Randy was, the kind of filth in him, in his body, and the others, Helen especially, if I’d known what she was, I wouldn’t have stayed at the party, I wouldn’t have had a single drink, I wouldn’t even have been in the play, if I’d known what kind of boys they were, and girls, if I’d known what they could do to me, if I’d only known. But I was seventeen, I didn’t even think about such things, and when they said they were going to have a party after the show, I thought it would be a nice party, after all Professor Richardson was going to be there, but they were drinking even with him in the room, and then when he left, it must have been about midnight, they really began drinking. I’d never even drunk anything stronger than beer before that, and here they were pouring drinks, and before I knew it, only the six of us were left…”

Alf Miscolo saw the policewoman going down the corridor toward the squadroom, and he figured it wouldn’t be long before he could stop the pretense of entertaining Lewis Redfield. Redfield had tired quickly of even the new Saturday Evening Post, and he fidgeted uneasily in his chair now in the sparsely furnished, loosely titled “reception room,” which was really a small cubicle off the clerical office. Miscolo wished both Redfield and his wife would go home so that he could get back to typing and filing, but instead the policewoman vanished down the corridor, and Redfield sat in his chair and fidgeted as though his wife were in the hands of heartless torturers.

Miscolo was a married man himself, so he said, “Don’t worry about her, Mr. Redfield. They’re only asking a few questions.”

“She’s a nervous woman,” Redfield answered. “I’m afraid they might upset her.” He did not look at Miscolo as he spoke. His eyes and his complete attention were riveted to the open doorway leading to the corridor. He could not see the squadroom from where he sat, nor could he hear a word spoken there, but his eyes stayed on the hallway, and he seemed to be straining to catch stray snatches of sound.

“How long you been married, sir?” Miscolo asked, making conversation.

“Two years,” Redfield said.

“You’re practically newlyweds, huh?” Miscolo said, grinning. “That’s why you’re so worried about her. Me, I been married…”

“I don’t think we fall into the ‘newlywed’ category,” Redfield said. “We’re not exactly teenagers.”

“No, I didn’t mean…”

“Besides, this is my wife’s second marriage.”

“Oh,” Miscolo said, and couldn’t think of anything to add to it.

“Yes,” Redfield said.

“Well, plenty of people get married late in life,” Miscolo said lamely. “Lots of times, those turn out to be the best marriages. Both parties are ready to accept family responsibility, ready to settle…”

“We don’t have a family,” Redfield said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We don’t have any children.”

“Well, sooner or later,” Miscolo said, smiling. “Unless, of course, you don’t want any.”

“I’d like a family,” Redfield said.

“Nothing like it,” Miscolo answered, warming to his subject, “I’ve got two kids myself, a girl and a boy. My daughter’s studying to be a secretary at one of the commercial high schools here in the city. My son’s up at MIT. That’s in Boston, you know. You ever been to Boston?”

“No.”

“I was there when I was in the Navy, oh, this was way back even before the Second World War. Were you in the service?”

“Yes.”

“What branch?”

“The Army.”

“Don’t they have a base up near Boston someplace?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seems to me I saw a lot of soldiers when I was there.” Miscolo shrugged. “Where were you stationed?”

“How much longer will they be with her?” Redfield asked suddenly.

“Oh, coupla minutes, that’s all. Where were you stationed, Mr. Redfield?”

“In Texas.”

“Doing what?”

“The usual. I was with an infantry company.”

“Ever get overseas?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I was in the Normandy invasion.”

“No kidding?”

Redfield nodded. “D-Day plus one.”

“That musta been a picnic, huh?”

“I survived,” Redfield said.

“Thank God, huh? Lotsa guys didn’t.”

“I know.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, I’m a little sorry I missed out on it. I mean it. When I was in the Navy, nobody even dreamed there was gonna be a war. And then, when it did come, I was too old. I’d have been proud to fight for my country.”

“Why?” Redfield asked.

“Why?” For a moment, Miscolo was stunned. Then he said, “Well…for…for the future.”

“To make the world safe for democracy?” Redfield asked.

“Yeah. That, and…”

“And to preserve freedom for future generations?” There was a curiously sardonic note in Redfield’s voice. Miscolo stared at him.

“I think it’s important my kids live in freedom,” Miscolo said at last.

“I think so, too,” Redfield answered. “Your kids and my kids.”

“That’s right. When you have them.”

“Yes, when I have them.”

The room went silent.

Redfield lit a cigarette and shook out the match. “What’s taking them so long?” he asked.

The policewoman who spoke privately to Margaret Redfield was twenty-four-years old. Her name was Alice Bannion, and she sat across the desk from Mrs. Redfield in the empty squadroom and listened to every word she said, her eyes saucer-wide, her heart pounding in her chest. It took Margaret only fifteen minutes to give the details of that party in 1940, and during that time Alice Bannion alternately blushed, turned pale, was shocked, curiously excited, repulsed, interested, and sympathetic. At 1:00, Margaret and Lewis Redfield left the squadroom, and Detective 3rd/Grade Alice Bannion sat down to type her report. She tried to do so unemotionally, with a minimum of involvement. But her spelling became more and more uncontrolled as she typed her way deeper into the report and the past. When she pulled the report out of the typewriter, she was sweating. She wished she hadn’t worn a girdle that day. She carried the typewritten pages into the lieutenant’s office, where Carella was waiting. She stood by the desk while Carella read what she had written.

“That’s it, huh?” he asked.

“That’s it,” she said. “Do me a favor next time, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“Ask your own questions,” Alice Bannion said, and she left the office.

“Let me see it,” Lieutenant Byrnes said, and Carella handed him the report:

DETAILS

Mrs. Redfield highly disturbed, did not wish to discuss matter at all. Claimed she had only told this to one other person in her life, her family doctor, and that because of urgency of matter, and need to do something about it. Has retained doctor over the years, general practitioner, Dr. Andrew Fidio, 106 Ainsley Avenue, Isola.

Mrs. Redfield claims drinks were forced upon her against will night of party Randolph Norden’s home, circa April 1940. Claims she was intoxicated when other students left at one or two in morning. Knew party was getting wild, but was too dizzy to leave. She refused to take part in what she knew was happening in other rooms, staying in living room near piano. Other two girls, Blanche Lettiger and Helen Struthers, forced Mrs. Redfield into bedroom, held her with assistance of boys while Randy Norden “abused” her. She tried to get out of room, but they tied her hands and one by one attacked her until she lost consciousness. She says all the boys participated in attack, and she can remember girls laughing. She seems to recall something about a fire, one of drapes burning, but memry is hazy. Someone took her home at about five a.m., she does not remember who. She did not report incident to sole living parent, mother, out of fear.

In circa October 1940, she went to Dr. Fidio with what seemed routine irritation of cervix. Blood test showed she was venereally infects, and that gonorrhea had entered chronic stage with internal scarring of female organs. She told Dr. Fidio about party in April, he suggested prosecution. She refused, not wanting mother to know about incident. But severity of symptoms indicated hysterectomy to Fidio, and she was admitted hospital in November, when he performed operation. Mother was told operation was appendectomy.

Mrs. Redfield feels to this day Randy Norden was boy who “diseased” her, but does not kniw for sure because each boy was attacker in turn. She stronly implies unnatural rlations with girls as well, but will not bring self to discuss it. She saed she was glad the boys were dead. When told that Blanche Lettiger had later became a prostitute, she said, “I’m not surprised.” She ended interview by saying, “I wish Helen was dead, too. She started it all.”

They worked on David Arthur Cohen for four hours, putting him through a sort of crash therapy his analyst would never have dreamed of. They had him tell and retell the details of that party long ago, read him sections of the report on Margaret Redfield, reread it, asked him to tell what had happened in his own words, asked him to explain the drapes being on fire, asked him what the girls had done, went over it and over it until, weeping, he could bear it no longer and simply repeated again and again, “I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer.”

The assistant district attorney, who had been sent up from downtown, had a small conference with the detectives when they were finished with Cohen.

“I don’t think we can hold him,” the assistant DA said. “We’ve got nothing that’ll stick.”

Carella and Meyer nodded.

“We’ll put a tail on him,” Carella said. “Thanks for coming up.”

They released David Arthur Cohen at 4:00 that afternoon. The detective assigned to his surveillance was Bert Kling. He never got to do any work, because Cohen was shot dead as he came down the precinct steps into the afternoon sunshine.