The Second Randall Garrett Megapack Page 39

  Here was another man who wasn’t tied to the “system.”

  “D’you mind if I ask some questions?” he said.

  “Go ahead, Your Grace. If I can’t answer ’em, I’ll say so.”

  “Thanks. First off, I’ll tell you what I do know—get my own knowledge of the background straight, so to speak. Now, as I understand it, the courts have agreed—temporarily, at least—that any person convicted of certain types of crimes must undergo a psychiatric examination before sentencing. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then, depending on the result of that examination, the magistrate of the court may sentence the offender to undertake psychiatric therapy instead of sending him to a penal institution, such time in therapy not to exceed the maximum time of imprisonment originally provided for the offense under the law.

  “His sentence is suspended, in other words, if he will agree to the therapy. If, after he is released by the psychiatrists, he behaves himself, he is not imprisoned. If he misbehaves, he must serve out the original sentence, plus any new sentence that may be imposed. Have I got it straight so far?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “As I understand it, you’ve had astounding success.” He looked, in spite of what he had said about skepticism, as though he thought the reports he’d heard were exaggerated.

  “So far,” I said evenly, “not a single one of our ‘patients’ has failed us.”

  He looked amazed, but he didn’t doubt me. “And you’ve been in operation for how long?”

  “A little over a year since the first case. But I think the record will stand the same way five, ten, fifty years from now.

  “You see, Your Grace, we don’t dare lose a man. If one of our tame zanies goes haywire again, the courts will stop this pilot project fast. There’s a lot of pressure against us.

  “In the first place, we only work with repeaters. You know the type. The world is full of them. The boys that are picked up over and over again for the same kind of crime.”

  He nodded. “They’re the ones we wait for. The ones we catch, convict, and send to prison—and then wait until they get out, and then wait some more until they commit their next crime, so that we can catch them and start the whole cycle over again.”

  “That’s them,” I said. “When they’re out, they’re just between crimes, that’s all. And that puts the police in a hell of a position, doesn’t it? You know they’re going to fall again; you know that they’re going to rob, or hurt, or kill someone. But there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re helpless. No police force has enough men to enable a cop to be assigned to every known repeater and follow him night and day.

  “In this state, if a man is convicted of a felony for a fourth time, a life sentence is mandatory. But that means that at least four victims have to be sacrificed before the dangerous man is removed from society!”

  The Duke nodded thoughtfully. “‘Sacrifice’ is the word. Go on.”

  “Now, the type of crime we’re working with—the kind we expect future laws to apply to—is strictly limited. It must be a crime of violence against a human being, or a crime of destruction in which there is a grave danger that human lives may be lost. The sex maniac, the firebug, or the goon who gets a thrill out of beating people. Or the reckless driver who has proven that he can’t be trusted behind the wheel of a car.

  “We can’t touch the kleptomaniac or the common drunk or the drug addict. They’re already provided for under other laws. And those habits are not, by themselves, dangerous to the lives of others. A good many of our kind of zany do drink or take drugs—about fifty per cent of them. But what they’re sentenced for is crimes of violence, not for guzzling hooch or mainlining heroin.”

  * * * *

  My phone chimed. It was Lieutenant Shultz, of Homicide. His square, blocky face held a trace of excitement. “Inspector Royall, Inspector Kleek told me to report to you if there was any news in the Donahue case.”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “We’re pretty sure of our man. Scrapings from the kid’s fingernails gave us his blood type. The computer narrowed the list down quite a bit with that data. Then, a few minutes ago, one of the boys found the kid’s clothes stuffed in with some trash paper in the back stairwell of a condemned building just a couple of blocks from where we found her last night.

  “And—get this, Inspector!—she was wearing a pair of those shiny patent-leather shoes, practically brand-new, and they have prints all over them! His are over hers, since he was the last one to handle them, and there’s only the two sets of prints! We just now got positive identification.”

  “Grab him and bring him in,” I said. “I’ll be right down. I want to talk to him.”

  His face fell a little. “Well, it isn’t going to be as easy as all that, sir. You see, we’d already checked at his last known address, earlier this morning, before we got the final check on the blood type. This guy left the rooming house he was staying in—checked out two days ago, just a short time after the girl was killed. I figured that looked queer at the time, so I had two of my men start tracing him in particular. But there’s not a sign of him so far.”

  I untensed myself. “O.K. What’s his record?”

  “Periodic drunk. Goes for weeks without touching the stuff, then he goes out on a binge that lasts for a week sometimes.

  “Name’s Lawrence Nestor, alias Larry Nestor. Twenty-eight years old, six feet one inch, slight build, but considered fairly strong. Brown hair, brown eyes. Speaks with a lisp due to a dental defect; the lisp becomes more noticeable when he’s drinking.” He turned the page of the report he was reading from. “Arrested for drunkenness four times in the past five years, got off with a fine when he pleaded guilty. He molested a little girl two years ago and was picked up for questioning, but nothing came of it. The girl hadn’t been physically hurt, and she couldn’t make a positive identification, so he was released from custody.

  “Officers on duty in the neighborhood report that he has frequently been seen talking to small children, usually girls, but he wasn’t seen to molest them in any way, and there were no complaints from parents, so no action could be taken.”

  Lieutenant Shultz looked up from the paper. “He’s had all kinds of jobs, but he can’t hold ’em very long. Goes on a binge, doesn’t show up for work, so they fire him. He’s a pretty good short-order cook, and that’s the kind of work he likes, if he can talk a lunch room into hiring him. He’s also been a bus boy, a tavern porter, and a janitor.

  “One other thing: The superintendent at the place where he was staying reports that he had an unusual amount of money on him—four or five hundred dollars he thinks. Doesn’t know where Nestor got the money, but he’s been boozing it up for the past five days. Bought new clothes—hat, suit, shoes, and so on. Living high on the hog, I guess.”

  * * * *

  I thought for a minute. If he had money, he could be anywhere in the world by now. On the other hand—

  “Look, Lieutenant, you haven’t said anything to the newsmen yet, have you?”

  He looked surprised. “No. I called you first. But I figured they could help us. Plaster his picture and name all over the area, and somebody will be bound to recognize him.”

  “Somebody might kill him, too, and I don’t want that. Look at it this way: If he had sense enough to get out of the local area two days ago and really get himself lost, then it won’t hurt to wait twenty-four hours or so to release the story. On the other hand, if he’s still in the city or over in Jersey, he could still get out before the news was so widespread that he’d be spotted by very many people.

  “But if he’s still drinking and thinks he’s safe, we may be able to get a lead on him. I have a hunch he’s still in the city. So hold off on that release to the newsmen as long as you can. Don’t let it leak.

  “Meanwhile, check all the transportation terminals. Find out if he’s ever been issued a passport. If he has, check the foreign consuls here in the city to
see if he got a visa. Notify the FBI; they’re back in it now, since there’s a chance that he may have crossed a state line—unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.

  “And tell the boys that do the footwork that they’re to say that the guy they’re looking for is wanted by the Missing Persons Bureau—that he left home and his wife is looking for him. Don’t connect him up with the Donahue case at all. Have every beat patrolman in the city on the lookout for a drunk with a lisp, but tell them the same story about the wife; I don’t want any leaks at all.

  “I’ll call the Commissioner right away to get his O.K., because I don’t want either one of us to get in hot water over this. If he’s with us, we’ll go ahead as planned; if he’s not, we’ll just have to call in the newsmen. O.K.?”

  “Sure, Inspector. Whatever you say. I’ll get right to work on it. You’ll have the Commissioner call me?”

  “Right. So long. Call me if anything happens.”

  I had added the bit about calling the Commissioner because I wasn’t sure but what Kleek would decide I was wrong in handling the case and let the story out “accidentally.” But I had to be careful not to make Shultz think I was trying to show my muscles. I called the Commissioner, got his O.K., and turned my attention back to my guest.

  He had been listening with obvious interest. “Another one of your zanies, eh?”

  “One that went too far, Your Grace. We didn’t get to him in time.” I spent five or six minutes giving him the details of the Donahue case.

  “The same old story,” he said when I had finished. “If your pilot project here works out, maybe that kind of slaughter can be eliminated.” Then he smiled. “Do you know something? You’re one of the few Americans I’ve ever met, outside your diplomats, who can address a person as ‘Your Grace’ and make it sound natural. Some people look at me as though they expected me to be all decked out in a ducal coronet and full ermines, ready for a Coronation. Your Commissioner, for instance. He seems quite a nice chap, but he also seems a bit overawed at a title. You seem perfectly relaxed.”

  I considered that for a moment. “I imagine it’s because he tends to look at you as a Duke who has taken up police work as a sort of gentlemanly hobby.”

  “And you?”

  “I guess I tend to think of you as a good cop who had the good fortune to be born the eldest son of a Duke.”

  His smile suddenly became very warm. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”

  There came the strained silence that sometimes follows when an honest compliment is passed between two men who have scarcely met. I broke it by pointing at the plaque on the front of my desk and giving him a broad grin. “Or maybe it’s just the kind of blood that flows in my veins.”

  He looked at the little plaque that said Inspector Royal C. Royall and laughed pleasantly. “I like to think that it’s a little bit of both.”

  * * * *

  The intercom on my desk flashed, and the sergeant’s voice said: “Inspector, a couple of the boys just brought in a man named Manewiscz. A stolen car was run into a fire plug over on Fifth Avenue near 99th Street. A witness has positively identified Manewiscz as the driver who ran away before the squad car arrived.”

  “Sidney Manewiscz?” I asked. “Manny the Moog?”

  “That’s the one. He’s got a record of stealing cars for joyrides. He insists on talking to you.”

  “Bring him in,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. And get hold of Dr. Brownlee.”

  “Excuse me,” I said to the Duke. “Business.” He started to get up, but I said, “That’s all right, Your Grace; you might as well sit in on it.” He relaxed back into the chair.

  Two cops brought in Manewiscz, a short, nervous man with a big nose and frightened brown eyes.

  “What’s the trouble, Manny?” I asked.

  “Nothing, Inspector; I’m telling you, I didn’t do nothing. I’m walking along Fifth Avenoo when all of a sudden these cops pull up in a squad-car and some fat jerk in the back seat is hollering that I am the guy he seen get out of a smashup on 99th Street, which is a good three blocks from where I am walking. Besides which, I have not driven a car for over a year now, and I have been in all ways a law-abiding citizen and a credit to the family and the community.”

  “Do you know the fat guy?” I asked. “The guy who fingered you for the boys?”

  “I never had the pleasure of seeing him before,” said Manny the Moog, “but, on the other hand, I do not expect to forget his fat face between now and the next time we meet.”

  At that point, Dr. Brownlee came through the door.

  “Hello, Inspector,” he said with a quick smile. He saw Manewiscz then, and his eyebrows went up. “What are you doing here, Manny?”

  “I am here, Doc, because the two gentlemen in uniform whom you see standing on both sides of me extend a polite invitation to accompany them here, although I am not in the least guilty of the thing they say I do which causes them to issue this invitation.”

  I explained what had happened and Brownlee shook his head slowly without saying anything for a moment. Then he said, “Come on in my office, Manny; I want to talk to you for a few minutes. O.K., Inspector?” He glanced at me.

  “Sure.” I waved him and Manny away. “You boys stay here,” I told the patrolmen, “Manny will be all right.” As soon as the door closed behind Dr. Brownlee and Manewiscz I said: “You two brought the witness in, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said one. The other nodded.

  “You’d better do a little more careful checking on him. He may be simply mistaken, or he may have been the actual driver. See if he’s been in any trouble before.”

  “The sergeant’s already doing that, sir,” said the one who had spoken before. “Meanwhile, maybe we better go out and have a little talk with the guy.”

  “Take it easy, he may be a perfectly respectable citizen.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “We’ll just ask him a few questions.”

  They left, and I noticed that the Duke was looking rather puzzled, but he didn’t ask any questions, so I couldn’t answer any.

  The intercom lit up, and I flipped the switch. “Yes?”

  “I just checked up on the witness,” said the sergeant. “No record. His identification checks out O.K. Thomas H. Wilson, an executive at the City-Chemical Bank; lives on Central Park West. The lab says that the driver of the car wore gloves.”

  “Thank Wilson for his information, let him go, and tell him we’ll call him if we need him. Lay it on thick about what a good citizen he is. Make him happy.”

  “Right.”

  I switched off and started to say something to my guest, but the intercom lit up again. “Yeah?”

  “Got a call-in from Officer McCaffery, the beat man on Broadway between 108th and 112th. He’s got a lead on the guy you’re looking for.”

  “Tell him we’ll be right over. Where is he?”

  The sergeant told me, and I cut off.

  I took out my gun and spun the cylinder, checking it from force of habit more than anything else, since I always check and clean it once a day, anyhow. I slid it back into its holster and turned to the Duke, who was already on his feet.

  “Did the Commissioner give you a Special Badge?” I asked him.

  “Yes, he did.” He pulled it out of his inside pocket and showed it to me.

  “Good. I’ll have the sergeant fill out a temporary pistol permit, and—”

  “I don’t have a pistol, Inspector,” he said. “I—”

  “That’s all right; we’ll issue you one. We can—”

  He shook his head. “Thanks, I’d rather not. I’ve never used a pistol except when I’ve gone out after a criminal who is known to be armed and dangerous. I don’t think Lawrence Nestor is very dangerous to adult males, and I doubt that he’s armed.” He hefted the walking stick he’d been carrying. “This will do nicely, thank you.”

  The way he said it was totally inoffensive, but it made me feel as though I were
about to go out rabbit hunting with an elephant gun. “Force of habit,” I said. “In New York, a cop would feel naked without a gun. But I assure you that I have no intention of shooting Mr. Nestor unless he takes a shot at me first.”

  Just as we were leaving, Dr. Brownlee met us in the outer room.

  “All right if I let Manny the Moog go, Roy?”

  “Sure, Doc; if you say so.” I didn’t have any time for introductions just then; Chief Inspector the Duke of Acrington and I kept going.

  Eight minutes later, I pulled up to the post where Officer McCaffery was waiting. Since I’d already talked to him over the radio, all he did was stroll off as soon as we pulled up. I didn’t want everyone in the neighborhood to know that there was something afoot. His Grace and I climbed out of the car and walked up toward a place called Flanagan’s Bar.

  It was a small place, the neighborhood type, with an old-fashioned air about it. Two or three of the men looked up as we came in, and then went back to the more important business of drinking. We went back to the far end of the bar, and the bartender came over, a short, heavy man, with the build of a heavyweight boxer and hands half again as big as mine. He had dark hair, a square face, a dimpled chin, and calculating blue eyes.

  “What’ll it be?” he said in a friendly voice.

  “Couple of beers,” I told him.

  I waited until he came back before I identified myself. Officer McCaffery had told me that the bartender was trustworthy, but I wanted to make sure I had the right man.

  “You Lee Darcey?” I asked when he brought back the beers.

  “That’s right.”

  I flashed my badge. “Is there anywhere we can talk?”

  “Sure. The back room, right through there.” He turned to the other bartender. “Take over for a while, Frankie.” Then he ducked under the bar and followed the Duke and me into the back room.