“Come on,” Thorsen groaned. “I didn’t ask you here to argue law. Sit down.” He waved them to the club chairs, then took the upholstered swivel chair behind his glass-topped desk. He flicked on his intercom. “Alice, please hold all incoming calls except emergency.”
Inspector Johnson turned toward Delaney and regarded him curiously.
“What did you think of my report, Edward?”
“The numbers were a shock, inspector. And the-”
“You know, Edward, if you called me Ben I really don’t think I’d have you up for insolence and insubordination.”
“All right, Ben. Well…the numbers were a shock, your analysis was brilliant, but I can’t agree with your conclusion.”
“What can’t you agree with?”
“Suppose only five percent of felony arrests eventually produce convictions. From that you argue that we-the men on the beat-should make fewer arrests but better ones-arrests that will stand up in court. But aren’t you disregarding the deterrent effect of mass arrests, even if we know the evidence will never stand up? The suspect may never be convicted, but after he goes through booking, a time in jail until he can raise bail-if he can-and the expense of a lawyer for his day in court, maybe he’ll think twice before he strays again.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Johnson rumbled. “I was aware of the deterrent angle when I wrote the report. As a matter of fact, I agree with it. But if I had come out recommending more arrests-whether or not they stood up in court-if I had recommended dragnet operations on prostitutes, drifters, homosexuals, gamblers-you know what would have happened? Some radical in the Department would have leaked that report to the press, and every civil liberties group would be down on our necks, and we’d be ‘fascist pigs’ all over again.”
“You mean you tailored your convictions for the sake of public relations?”
“That’s right,” Johnson agreed blandly.
“Are public relations that important?”
“Got to be. For the Department. Your world is your own Precinct. My world is the Commissioner’s office and, by extension, the Mayor’s.”
Delaney stared at the big black. Inspector Benjamin Johnson was on the Commissioner’s staff, in charge of statistics and production analysis. He was an enormous man, a former All-American guard from Rutgers. He had gone to fat, but the result wasn’t unpleasant; he still carried himself well, and his bulk gave him added dignity. His smile was appealing, almost childlike-a perfect disguise for what Delaney knew was a hard, complex, perceptive intelligence. A black didn’t attain Johnson’s rank and reputation by virtue of a hearty laugh and a mouthful of splendid teeth.
“Please,” Thorsen raised a palm. “The two of you get together some night and fight it out over a beefsteak or soul food.”
“Steak for me,” Johnson said.
“I’ll take the soul food,” Delaney smiled.
“Let’s get on with it,” Thorsen said in his no-nonsense way. “First of all, Edward, how is Barbara feeling?”
Delaney came back to realities. He enjoyed “police talk” and could sit up all night arguing crime and punishment. But only with other cops. Civilians simply didn’t know. Or perhaps it was like atheists arguing with priests. They were talking about different things, or in different languages. The atheist argued reason; the priest argued faith. In this case, the policeman was the atheist, the civilian the priest. Both were right and both were wrong.
“Barbara is not so good,” he said steadily. “She hasn’t snapped back from the operation the way she should-or at least the way I hoped she would. They’ve started her on antibiotics. The first didn’t do a thing. They’re trying another. They’ll go on trying.”
“I was sorry to hear your wife was ill, Edward,” Johnson said quietly. “What exactly is it?”
“It’s called Proteus infection. In her case it’s an infection of the urinary tract. But the doctors wouldn’t tell me a damned thing about how really ill she is and what her chances are.”
“I know,” Johnson nodded sympathetically. “The thing I hate most about doctors is when I go to one with a pain in my gut and explain exactly what the symptoms are, and the doctor says, ‘That doesn’t worry me.’ Then I say, ‘I know, goddamn it, it’s my pain; why should it worry you’?”
Delaney smiled wanly, knowing Johnson was trying to cheer him up.
“I hate to hear about illnesses I never heard of before,” Thorsen said. “There are so many things that can go wrong with the human body, it’s a wonder any of us get through this life alive.” Then, realizing what he had said and seeing the others’ sad smiles, he added. “That’s right-we don’t, do we? Well, Edward, I have your application for retirement here. First of all let me confess, I haven’t done a thing with it yet. It’s perfectly in order. You have every right to retire if you wish. But we wanted to talk to you first. Ben, you want to take it from here?”
“No.” Johnson shook his massive head. “You carry the ball.”
“Edward, this concerns the Lombard homicide in your precinct. I know you know the man’s reputation and the publicity he got and how important it is to the Department to come up with a quick solution and arrest. And, of course, it came in the middle of the reorganization of the Detective Division. Did you get the memo on the special task force Operation Lombard headed by Deputy Commissioner Broughton?”
Delaney paused before answering, wondering how much he should say. But Broughton was a slob-and what could the man do to him since he was retiring?
“Yes, I know,” he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I suggested Operation Lombard to Broughton the morning of the murder. We had a private talk in his car.”
Thorsen turned his head swiftly to look at Johnson. The two men stared at one another a moment. Then the inspector slammed a heavy palm down onto the arm of his leather chair.
“I told you,” he said angrily. “I told you that stupid, racist son of a bitch didn’t have the brains to come up with that idea himself. So it was you, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t expect a thank-you from brother Broughton. That bastard is strictly ‘Hurray for me, fuck you.’ He’s flying mighty high right now.”
“That’s why we asked you here today, Edward,” Thorsen said softly. “Broughton is flying high, and we’d like to bring him down.”
Delaney looked from man to man, realizing he was getting involved in something he had vowed to avoid: the cliques and cabals that flourished in the upper echelons of the Department-and in all levels of government, and in the military, and in corporations, and in every human organization that had more than two members.
“Who is ‘we’?” he asked cautiously.
“Inspector Johnson and myself, of course. And about ten or a dozen others, all of superior rank to us, who don’t, for obvious reasons, want their names used at this time.”
“What ranks?”
“Up to Commissioner.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“First of all, we don’t like Broughton. We believe he’s a disgrace-hell, he’s a catastrophe! — to the Department. He’s amassing power, building a machine. This Operation Lombard is just another step up for him. If he can solve the murder.”
“What motivates Broughton?” Delaney asked. “Ambition? What does he want? Commissioner? Mayor?”
Delaney looked at him, ready to laugh if Johnson was smiling. But he was not.
“Ben’s not kidding, Edward. It’s not impossible. Broughton is a relatively young man. He has an ego and hunger for power you wouldn’t believe. Theodore Roosevelt went from the Commissioner’s office to the White House. Why not Broughton? But even if he never gets to be President, or governor, or mayor, or even commissioner, we still want him out.”
“Facist bastard,” Johnson grumbled.
“So…?” Delaney said.
“We have a plan. Will you listen to it?”
“I’ll listen.”
“I’m not even going to talk about discretion and all this being in strict confidence, etcetera. I know you too well for that. Edward, even if you retired today, you couldn’t spend every waking hour with your wife. She’s going to be in the hospital for the foreseeable future, isn’t she?”