“Could be,” Rizzo said. “Or maybe just somebody figures Frankie is too stupid for it to matter. Or the perp could be somebody Frankie’d be too scared to rat on.” He shrugged. “We’ll see. But it’s too early now. Frankie doesn’t get there till after he has dinner, and I’d rather not go to his home and rattle his old lady. I’ve got some paperwork to do and calls to make. Relax awhile, we’ll head out a little later.”
Priscilla nodded. “Okay. I’ve got some DD-fives to catch up on. Let me know when you’re ready.”
After she walked away, Rizzo turned back to his desk. The folded Daily News caught his eye. He picked it up and again scanned the photograph and report of Councilman William Daily’s impressive election victory.
Things would have been different, Rizzo thought. Things should have been different. Had the microcassette hidden away in the Rizzo basement followed its rightful course after he and McQueen had first found it, the newspapers would be singing a different song about William Daily right now.
Rizzo tossed the paper angrily into the wastebasket at his feet.
“Fuck it,” he said in a barely audible hiss. “His time’ll come. It’ll come.”
Reaching for his paperwork, Rizzo tried to ignore the voice nagging at him, a soft, questioning voice.
“Fuck it,” he said again. He turned to his work.
FRANKIE CORVONA was twenty-eight years old. The youngest of three siblings, he had been what the neighborhood women referred to as a “change of life baby,” born unplanned to a forty-four-year-old mother. Complications at birth involving a strangling umbilical cord had deprived Frankie’s new brain of oxygen, causing irreversible damage. In addition to his severely reduced intellectual capacities, he had also been rendered epileptic. Later, additional problems arising from cranial pressures had further tormented him, resulting in a series of operations. The operations had preserved his life but further damaged his already ravished brain.
Frankie lived with his mother, drawing a disability stipend from Social Security. His father, long deceased, had left a modest pension behind. Frankie’s two older siblings were only sporadically involved, bringing gifts of money for birthdays and holidays.
Rizzo pulled the Chevy to the curb on the north side of Seventy-second Street and shut down the motor. He peered into the darkness of the Public School 112 schoolyard.
“I can’t see if he’s there,” he said.
Priscilla shrugged. “It’s so fuckin’ dark, I can barely see the steps.” She opened the car door. “Let’s go see,” she said.
The two detectives crossed the sidewalk and climbed the three worn concrete steps leading to the schoolyard. Stepping through the open gateway of the six-foot iron fence that surrounded the yard, they paused, allowing their eyes to adjust to the blanketing darkness. The moonless night was cold and damp, illumination cast only from the corner streetlight where Seventy-second Street intersected with Fifteenth Avenue. Rizzo noted that the corner itself was well lit, the streetlight giving off a warm, blue-white glow.
They crossed the yard to the steep, narrow high steps nestled against the side of the ancient school building. In the cold darkness enveloping the steps, nearly halfway up, they saw the huddled mass of Frankie Corvona.
As they reached the base of the staircase, they paused, Rizzo placing a foot onto the second step and leaning forward, his right elbow laid casually across his knee.
“Frankie?” he said, his voice friendly and soft. “Is that you up there?”
In the darkness, they could barely make out the pale, round, full face of the man. His large, wide-set eyes flitted from one cop to the other.
“It’s Frankie,” the man said in response. “Frankie.”
“Well, I figured you’d be here, Frankie, keeping an eye on the place for us,” Rizzo said. Then he turned to Priscilla. “See, what’d I tell you? We can always count on Frankie.”
Turning his gaze back to the young man, he said, “I’m Joe. I’m a policeman. A detective. And this is my partner, Cil. She’s a detective, too. We work for the Sixty-second Precinct. Sort of like you do, Frankie.”
A small smile came to the man’s lips. “I watch the school at night,” he said, pride in his voice. “I watch the school.”
“Joe told me about that, Frankie,” Priscilla said. “And he told me you do a real good job, too.”
Frankie turned his eyes to her. “You’re black,” he said.
“Yes, Frankie. I am.”
He appeared to think about that for a moment.
“Dr. Towner is black,” he said.
“Who’s Dr. Towner?” Priscilla asked.
Frankie’s face brightened. “He’s my friend, he gives me medicine so I don’t spin around too much.”
Priscilla nodded. “That’s good, Frankie. Real good.”
Rizzo straightened up. “Frankie,” he said, “you mind if we come up there? We’d like to talk to you a little.”
Now Frankie’s face clouded, his smile faded, his eyes darted nervously.
“I didn’t go around the children,” he said, a childlike defiance in his tone. “I didn’t.”
Rizzo nodded. “I know that, Frankie. It’s not about that. It’s something else. Something important that we need you to help us with.” Rizzo leaned forward, glancing around, lowering his voice.
“It’s police business, Frankie,” he said. “We need your help with some police business.”
Once again, the face brightened. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”
“Can we come up?” Rizzo asked again.
“Sure,” Frankie said, sliding across the step, leaning his left side against the school wall, making room.
They climbed the fifteen steps, and Rizzo sat down next to him, Priscilla one step above.
“Can I see your badge?” Frankie asked Rizzo.
“Sure,” Rizzo said, reaching into his left pants pocket. He flipped the case open, the gold detective sergeant shield catching the faint light and twinkling against the worn black leather.
Frankie raised his eyes from the badge to Rizzo’s face.
“Can I hold it?”
Rizzo extended the badge, pressing it into Frankie’s hand.
“As a matter of fact,” Rizzo said, “you should hold it. After all, this is official police business you’re helping us with. Like a deputy, sort of.”
Priscilla watched as Frankie raised the badge tentatively to his eye level, studying it, his face glowing with happiness. She pursed her lips and shook her head slightly, saddened. She glanced at Rizzo, but his face, neutral, remained on Frankie.
Frankie lowered the badge, holding it tightly in both hands.
“I went to Shea Stadium once,” he said, some pleasurable memory swirling to the forefront of his thoughts. “When it used to be there.”
“You root for the Mets, Frankie?” Rizzo asked.
Now Frankie appeared confused. “Mets?” he said, frowning. “I think so.” After a pause, his smile returned. “Mets,” he repeated. “They play baseball.”
Rizzo nodded, glancing at Priscilla. She gave a small shrug in acknowledgment of the look, but remained silent.
Aware that stress could trigger a seizure in the man-child, Rizzo very gradually moved the conversation to the business at hand.
“So, Frankie, were you here last Thursday?” he asked. “Last Thursday night, around nine-thirty?”
Frankie frowned, dropping his eyes to the badge he held, running his finger across the embossed surface.
“I don’t know,” he said flatly.
Priscilla leaned forward, laying a gentle hand on Frankie’s right shoulder.
“Do you know what day today is, Frankie?” she asked.
He raised his eyes from the badge to meet hers. He looked confused.
“It isn’t day,” he said with an assertive shake of his head. “It’s night.”
Priscilla nodded. “Yes, Frankie, of course. You’re right. It is night. Do you know what night this is?”