The Strangler

22

Ricky considered the little man at the door.

Stan Gedaminski wore a grubby wool overcoat that might once have been blue, and the sort of plain black shoes favored by beat cops and mailmen and other professional walkers. His hair was an unfortunate shade of yellow-gray that nearly matched the complexion of his face, so that his head seemed entirely of one color, a sickly shade of flax, like a photo blown out by too much flash.

“Hey, Stan. You got a warrant?”

“No.”

“Alright. Come in, then.”

For obvious reasons, Ricky did not disdain cops as most burglars did. He considered it a mark of his own professionalism that he was no more wary of policemen than any other citizen; it meant he had as little to fear from them. And why should he? A good burglar, happily, ought never to be caught. Prepare each job properly and avoid the cardinal sins of working too often and talking too much, and burglary was about as secure a profession as there was. This neutrality about cops allowed Ricky to maintain a cordial if wary relationship with some of them. Stan Gedaminski was one.

A detective in the BPD burglary unit, Gedaminski had an eerie instinct for the job. He would patrol in vulnerable areas-empty residential streets and apartment houses in midday, hotels in the evenings, businesses overnight-and accurately identify the man in the crowd who was a burglar about to strike. This talent revealed itself early, in Gedaminski’s rookie year on the force. He was in uniform, walking a beat in the Back Bay on a busy afternoon. He saw a man, well dressed but nondescript, and decided to follow him. Later, Gedaminski would be asked what it was about this man that attracted his attention. He did not have an answer. Just a feeling. He followed the man to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and immediately alerted the house detective of a burglary about to take place. Together they arrested this man in the empty room of a woman from Tulsa, where he was calmly pocketing her jewelry. Gedaminski’s gift was a narrow one. He could not sniff out murderers or rapists the way he could burglars, nor did those other crimes interest him. He was content to work burglary cases, a futile specialty. In that, Ricky thought, he was the perfect Bostonian, contentious, rigid, parochial, and so contemptuous of ostentation that he would devote himself to the one crime in which the deck was stacked in the criminal’s favor. You had to respect a guy like that, whether or not you liked him.

“Sorry to bother you, Rick.”

Gedaminski watched as the great Ricky Daley shuffled inside, barefoot. It was nearly eleven A. M. but the guy had not showered yet. His hair was spiky, he needed a shave. The apartment was a mess. Some beatnik jazz record was playing.

“You just waking up?”

“Is there a law against it?”

“Out late? What were you up to?”

“Ever heard of Charlie Mingus?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Gedaminski had never been to Ricky’s apartment before, and he made a survey of the living room. “Where’s the Rembrandts?”

“Under the mattress.” Ricky scratched. “What brings you out here, Stan? You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

“I caught this case. It used to be your brother’s. I guess he got transferred out of Station Sixteen. They reassigned the case. Somebody took the little statue of Jesus out of the Nativity scene. You know, on the Common there.”

“That’s terrible. People.”

“I need it back.”

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“I got brothers, too.”

“That’s it? Guilt by association?”

“I just want the statue, is all.”

“Way past Christmas, isn’t it, Stan?”

“Christmas’ll be back next year. Unless somebody steals it.”

“Did you check the pawnshops?”

“Look, Rick, can we cut the shit? I’m not looking to make a big deal here. This isn’t the Brinks job. I’m not looking to make a pinch. I don’t really give a shit about the case. I just need that statue back, that’s all. This is off the books. Just between you and me. If you could help me out on this one, I’d appreciate it. I got better things to do.”

“I have your word? As an officer of the law and a Christian?”

“You have my word as whatever you want.”

Ricky went to a cabinet, pulled out the statue, and handed it feetfirst to the detective.

“Thank you.”

“Well, some of us citizens like to help out our brave men in blue when we can.”

“Jesus, this thing’s heavy,” Gedaminski said. “What do they make these out of, lead?”

“It’s the weight of our sins. Haven’t you heard?”

Gedaminski held the statue at his hip, like a book.

“Was there something else, Stan? You look like there’s something else on your mind.”

“I got this other case that’s been bothering me. This hotel robbery at the Copley Plaza. Last November. Somebody took off a jeweler, maybe you heard about it.”

“Of course I heard about it.”

“Guy says he lost almost a million bucks. Diamonds.”

“These guys all lie, Stan, you know that. Whatever they lose, they double it when they put in the claim with the insurance company. It’s a scam. You ought to be investigating those guys. Crooks.”

“How much you figure the guy really lost?”

“Stan, come on. How would I know?”

“See, that’s what I figured. It didn’t look like you. The guy got in by smashing the window. Glass all over the room. I told them, ‘That ain’t Daley. Ricky Daley doesn’t leave clues. He gets in and out without a trace, that’s his M.O.’”

“Well, thanks. I guess.”

“Big job, though, and nobody knows anything about it? So then I thought: if I was Ricky Daley, that’s just what I’d do. Smash a window, make a mess. Change it up, you know?”

“I’d like to help you, Stan. I just don’t know anything about it.”

“Well, there’s a lot of people from the hotel there, guests and whatever. Let’s hope one of them remembers the guy.”

“Let’s.”

Gedaminski held up the little statue. “Thanks for this. I won’t forget it.”

“Do me a favor: Forget it.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry about all this, you know, getting you out of bed before lunch.”

Ricky showed him to the door. “Hey, Stan, can I ask you something? Why do you bother?”

“Bother with what?”

“There’s all these serious things going on out there, women getting strangled and killed-for Christ’s sake, the President just got killed. The whole world’s going to hell, and you’re wasting your time on pissant B-and-E cases. Who does it hurt, anyway? Some lady loses her earrings, so what? The insurance company pays her off, she gets a new pair better than what she lost. Who’s the victim? The insurance company? Those are some of the most profitable corporations on earth. And burglars are the best thing that ever happened to the insurance companies; they convince people they need to keep buying insurance. These people, they’re more likely to get hit by lightning than by a burglar. But every time somebody gets ripped off, ten idiots run out and buy insurance. It’s a victimless crime. Besides, you can’t stop it. Did you hear, last year Castro made burglary a capital crime in Cuba? Know what happened? The burglary rate went up- up. So what’s the point? It’s human nature. You can’t stop it. I mean, I know somebody has to work these cases, somebody has to run around to the pawnshops and get back all the swag and make a pinch here or there to make it look good. But why you? You’re a good cop, Stan, you got a good head. You could go out there and make a difference. Really. Go catch the Strangler. Stop bothering people.”

Gedaminski’s mouth opened a crack.

Ricky grinned. “Just kiddin’, Stan. Hey, don’t drop Jesus. He’s fragile.”

The detective sloped to the door. “They weight it down,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The statue.” He lifted the Nativity figure. “They put a weight inside so it won’t blow away in the wind, in winter, so it won’t fall over and break.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. It’s a theory.”

“See, that’s why you’re a good detective. I never could have figured that out.”

“You’re wrong, you know, all that crap you just said about burglary, about it’s a victimless crime and nobody gets hurt and all that. A crime is a crime. It’s all the same instinct. You look at any violent criminal, you open his probation file, you’ll see old convictions for property crimes.”

“Not quite the same instinct, though, is it?”

“This Strangler, what do they know about him? What’s the same in every one of those cases? Two things: He gets in and out of these apartments without using force and without being seen. And when he’s done with these ladies, what does he do before he leaves? He steals. Now what does that sound like to you?”

“You left out the third thing, Stan: He strangles women.”

“I’ll make you a bet: when they catch the guy, there’ll be B-and-E’s on his record.”

“So you figure the Strangler is a burglar.”

“It’s a theory.”