Detective Bert Kling was in love, but nobody else was.
The mayor was not in love, he was furious. The mayor called the police commissioner in high dudgeon and wanted to know what kind of a goddam city this was where a man of the caliber of Parks Commissioner Cowper could be gunned down on the steps of Philharmonic Hall, what the hell kind of a city was this, anyway?
“Well, sir,” the police commissioner started, but the mayor said, “Perhaps you can tell me why adequate police protection was not provided for Commissioner Cowper when his wife informs me this morning that the police knew a threat had been made on his life, perhaps you can tell me that,” the mayor shouted into the phone.
“Well, sir,” the police commissioner started, but the mayor said, “Or perhaps you can tell me why you still haven’t located the apartment from which those shots were fired, when the autopsy has already revealed the angle of entrance and your ballistics people have come up with a probable trajectory, perhaps you can tell me that.”
“Well, sir,” the police commissioner started, but the mayor said, “Get me some results, do you want this city to become a laughingstock?”
The police commissioner certainly didn’t want the city to become a laughingstock, so he said, “Yes, sir, I’ll do the best I can,” and the mayor said, “You had better,” and hung up.
There was no love lost between the mayor and the police commissioner that morning. So the police commissioner asked his secretary, a tall wan blond man who appeared consumptive and who claimed his constant hacking cough was caused by smoking three packs of cigarettes a day in a job that was enough to drive anyone utterly mad, the police commissioner asked his secretary to find out what the mayor had meant by a threat on the parks commissioner’s life, and report back to him immediately. The tall wan blond secretary got to work at once, asking around here and there, and discovering that the 87th Precinct had indeed logged several telephone calls from a mysterious stranger who had threatened to kill the parks commissioner unless five thousand dollars was delivered to him by noon yesterday. When the police commissioner received this information, he said, “Oh, yeah?” and immediately dialed Frederick 7-8024, and asked to talk to Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes.
Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes had enough headaches that morning, what with Carella in the hospital with second-degree burns on the backs of both hands, and the painters having moved from the squadroom into his own private office, where they were slopping up everything in sight and telling jokes on their ladders. Byrnes was not overly fond of the police commissioner to begin with, the commissioner being a fellow who had been imported from a neighboring city when the new administration took over, a city which, in Byrnes’ opinion, had an even larger crime rate than this one. Nor was the new commissioner terribly fond of Lieutenant Byrnes, because Byrnes was the sort of garrulous Irishman who shot off his mouth at Police Benevolent Association and Emerald Society functions, letting anyone within earshot know what he thought of the mayor’s recent whiz-kid appointee. So there was hardly any sweetness and light oozing over the telephone wires that morning between the commissioner’s office at Headquarters downtown on High Street, and Byrnes’ paint-spattered corner office on the second floor of the grimy station house on Grover Avenue.
“What’s this all about, Byrnes?” the commissioner asked.
“Well, sir,” Byrnes said, remembering that the former commissioner used to call him Pete, “we received several threatening telephone calls from an unidentified man yesterday, which telephone calls I discussed personally with Parks Commissioner Cowper.”
What did you do about those calls, Byrnes?”
“We placed the drop site under surveillance, and apprehended the man who made the pickup.”
“So what happened?”
“We questioned him and released him.”
“Why?”
“Insufficient evidence. He was also interrogated after the parks commissioner’s murder last night. We did not have ample grounds for an arrest. The man is still free, but a telephone tap went into effect this morning, and we’re ready to move in if we monitor anything incriminating.”
“Why wasn’t the commissioner given police protection?”
“I offered it, sir, and it was refused.”
“Why wasn’t your suspect put under surveillance before a crime was committed?”
“I couldn’t spare any men, sir, and when I contacted the 115th in Riverhead, where the suspect resides, I was told they could not spare any men either. Besides, as I told you, the commissioner did not want protection. He felt we were dealing with a crackpot, sir, and I must tell you that was our opinion here, too. Until, of course, recent events proved otherwise.”
“Why hasn’t that apartment been found yet?”
“What apartment, sir?”
“The apartment from which the two shots were fired that killed Parks Commissioner Cowper.”
“Sir, the crime was not committed in our precinct. Philharmonic Hall, sir, is in the 53rd Precinct and, as I’m sure the commissioner realizes, a homicide is investigated by the detectives assigned to the squad in the precinct in which the homicide was committed.”
“Don’t give me any of that bullshit, Byrnes,” the police commissioner said.
“That is the way we do it in this city, sir,” Byrnes said.
“This is your case,” the commissioner answered. “You got that, Byrnes?”
“If you say so, sir.”
“I say so. Get some men over to the area, and find that goddamn apartment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And report back to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Byrnes said, and hung up.
“Getting a little static, huh?” the first painter said.
“Getting your ass chewed out, huh?” the second painter said.
Both men were on their ladders, grinning and dripping apple green paint on the floor.
“Get the hell out of this office!” Byrnes shouted.
“We ain’t finished yet,” the first painter said.
“We don’t leave till we finish,” the second painter said.
“That’s our orders,” the first painter said.
“We don’t work for the Police Department, you know.”
“We work for the Department of Public Works.”
“Maintenance and Repair.”
“And we don’t quit a job till we finish it.”
“Stop dripping paint all over my goddamn floor!” Byrnes shouted, and stormed out of the office. “Hawes!” he shouted. “Kling! Willis! Brown! Where the hell is everybody?” he shouted.
Meyer came out of the men’s room, zipping up his fly. “What’s up, Skipper?” he said.
“Where were you?”
“Taking a leak. Why, what’s up?”
“Get somebody over to the area!” Byrnes shouted.
“What area?”
“Where the goddamn commissioner got shot!”
“Okay, sure,” Meyer said, “But why? That’s not our case.”
“It is now.”
“Oh?”
“Who’s catching?”
“I am.”
“Where’s Kling?”
“Day off.”
“Where’s Brown?”
“On that wire tap.”
“And Willis?”
“He went to the hospital to see Steve.”
“And Hawes?”
“He went down for some Danish.”
“What the hell am I running here, a resort in the mountains?”
“No, sir. We …”
“Send Hawes over there! Send him over the minute he gets back. Get on the phone to Ballistics. Find out what they’ve got. Call the M.E.’s office and get that autopsy report. Get cracking, Meyer!”