The cold room

FIFTEEN

The Karyn Porter-Mannberg Senior Residence on Wythe Avenue was typical of others scattered through the five boroughs. Four stories high, the building spread across three lots and was virtually without architectural detail. Red brick, green window frames, white sills beneath the windows, absolutely regular, absolutely functional. But whatever Porter-Mannberg lacked in style, it was clean and solid. The hot water would be hot, the toilets would flush, heat would be forthcoming in the winter. For the elderly poor, like Clyde Kelly, it was the difference between a tolerable decline and the absolute hell of a men’s shelter.

The white-tile lobby I entered was just large enough to hold the mailboxes and a small desk. A security guard sat behind the desk. Tall and thin, he wore a blue uniform with a nametag over the left breast identifying him as OFFICER ROBERTSON. A thick leather belt around his waist held a canister of mace, a pair of handcuffs and a folding knife.

‘I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’ I displayed my shield for the customary three seconds. ‘Is he upstairs?’

‘Nope. Went out about one o’clock and ain’t come back since.’

‘Will he return for dinner?’

‘Mostly, he does.’

I glanced at my watch. It was almost six o’clock. ‘What time is dinner served?’

Robertson smiled. ‘Well, it ain’t exactly served, but you can get a hot meal between six and seven. After that, it’s peanut butter and jelly. But you ain’t gotta worry. Clyde always comes back in time for the curfew at ten o’clock. Sleepin’ in the street makes him nervous.’

With little choice in the matter, I settled down to wait.

A few minutes before seven, a short black man hustled through the door. I locked eyes with the guard who nodded at the new arrival. He wore a camouflage T-shirt over a pair of cargo pants and he caught an attitude when I stopped him, despite the gold shield I held in my hand.

‘Ain’t got time for no bullshit,’ he declared. ‘Ah’m gonna miss my dinner.’

‘This’ll only take a second.’ I stepped between him and the stairs. ‘I just need a little help here. I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’

Officer Robertson spoke up. ‘Ain’t nothin’ bad, Percy. Jus’ speak to the detective.’

Percy tossed Robertson a hard look that spoke of grievances past, grievances unresolved. ‘Last time I took notice,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t in your army and I don’t got to take your orders.’

‘That’s right,’ I echoed, ‘this is between you and me.’ I added a smile to my comment before offering the man a deal. ‘By the way, I’m guaranteeing your dinner. You don’t get fed upstairs, the Chinese take-out’s on me.’

Percy huffed twice, in an effort, no doubt, to show me that he was a hard sell. Then he said, ‘I jus’ come from Clyde. We was under the bridge, hangin’ out.’

‘Is he on his way back to the residence?’

‘Naw, he went to the festival, watch ’em tote that statue. Clyde’s a Catholic.’

‘What festival?’

He flared up, his shoulders rising as though I’d deliberately provoked him. ‘You know, where the wops carry that statue down the street. I can’t pronounce that name they call it.’

Robertson supplied the missing information, his voice dripping contempt for Percy’s ignorance. ‘The Giglio. It’s called the Giglio.’

His pronunciation of the word — JEEL-yo — finally kicked my brain into gear. Some weeks before, a long memo from the Community Affairs Officer had circulated through the Nine-Two, a kind of reminder. I’d read the memo from beginning to end, intrigued by the details.

Every year, according to the memo, one of the many Catholic churches in Williamsburg throws a festival to honor an Italian bishop whose name I couldn’t recall. The highlight of each day is the ‘dance’ of the Giglio. This may not seem like such a big deal, but the Giglio includes, among its elements, a seventy-foot tower crowned with a statue of the saint and a wooden platform large enough to hold a brass band, a priest from the parish, the capo in charge, and a few local celebrities. Beneath the platform, more than a hundred of the strongest and most virile men in the neighborhood crouch, their shoulders pressed to aluminium crossbars, awaiting a signal from the capo. They raise the four-ton Giglio when that signal comes, then carry it a short distance before setting it down. This process is repeated a number of times.

I’d put the memo to one side after reading it. From a policing standpoint, the issues were about crowd control and petty crime. They had nothing to do with Detective Harry Corbin.

‘You know where this festival takes place?’ I asked.

‘Up the Northside, on Havemeyer Street. But if you fixin’ on locatin’ Clyde, you can just put that shit away. Them guineas, they pack ’em in like sardines when they dance the statue. You can’t hardly move.’

Percy was right. I approached Havemeyer Street along North Seventh Street, from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, only to find the short block choked with pedestrians, road and sidewalks both. I could hear a band playing in the distance. The music was up-tempo, heavy on the brass and so obviously Italian that I was instantly transported to the opening scene of The Godfather, a reflex I knew I’d carry into the grave. But I could see neither band, nor Giglio, nor any sign of a procession from where I came to a halt. The hundreds of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between me and Havemeyer Street were only the crowd’s overflow. The task was hopeless.

I retraced my steps to the end of the block, then called Drew Millard at the Nine-Two. Not only, he told me, was Barsakov still in custody, an ADA was expected at any moment to prepare warrants.

‘You’re not havin’ a problem locating the witness, are you, Harry?’

‘No, we’ll be along.’

‘Good, because if Kelly doesn’t show up, I’m gonna look like a complete asshole.’

There was nothing more to say, and I headed back to the senior residence, my focus already shifting to Konstantine Barsakov. Interrogation, the duel in the box, is more than my specialty. It’s the main reason I continue to carry the badge.

It’s never in a suspect’s interest to confess to the police. The police cannot, by law, make deals. Deals are the province of the District Attorney. Most suspects know that very well, yet they confess anyway. They confess because good detectives make them confess. And not by any use of physical force more compelling than an occasional slap. No, detectives, the good ones, anyway, know how to unlock the locks, to open the mind, to force all that guilty knowledge through a single outlet. From the lungs, up the trachea, through the larynx, over the lips and gums. Then the leap, through space, into the welcoming ear of the patient detective.

It doesn’t always work, of course, but I wasn’t expecting Konstantine to be that difficult. The truth, though it wouldn’t set him free, would reduce his potential sentence by more than twenty years. That’s the difference between second-degree murder and illegal disposal of a body, the worst violation I could charge him with, since accessory after the fact is not a crime in New York. My primary task was to convince him that he’d go down for the murder unless he told me the truth; that was the necessary first step from which all else would flow.

According to Clyde, disposing of Jane’s body was just a job to Barsakov, no more distasteful than tossing bags of garbage into a vacant lot. Hardened criminals can’t be cajoled. Nor will an appeal to conscience do the trick, not when your suspect doesn’t have a conscience. I would have to present the case against him, remaining firm, though dispassionate. Here are the facts of life, Konstantine. Read ’em and weep.

The presentation would begin with my leading Barsakov to a line-up room. There he would be made to pose with five other men, all cops. Step forward. Turn to the right. Turn to the left. Look straight ahead. Konstantine, of course, knew he’d been observed on the night he carried Jane to South Fifth Street. The line-up would only confirm his worst fears.

‘It’s the eyes,’ I’d explain, once I got him back in the little room. ‘They’re like havin’ a tattoo on your forehead. You can’t say, “it wasn’t me.” No jury would believe you. And by the way, we’re gonna search the warehouse before the night’s over. If the victim was butchered inside, we’ll find evidence. I don’t care what you cleaned up with. Plus, I have witnesses who put a squinty-eyed, fat man with the woman you dumped on South Fifth Street. You know, back when she was still alive. Whatta you wanna bet they identify you, too?’

By the time Clyde showed up, a little before ten, I was outside on the sidewalk, pacing. He came to within a few yards of me, then stopped abruptly. ‘Clyde Kelly,’ he declared, his tone cheery, his breath misted with the odor of cheap booze, ‘reportin’ fa duty.’