Read Online VC01 - Privileged Lives by Edward Stewart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward Stewart
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supplementary complaint reports, the triplicates that detectives filled out summarizing progress on ongoing cases. As unsolved crimes got stale, regulations required a minimum of two reports annually. The fives mounted up—the older the report, the thicker the fistful of blue forms stapled to it.
A voice cut into the ringing. Gruff. “O’Brien.”
“Chief? Vince. Just got your message.”
“Vince, the goddamnedest thing. Remember that Babe Vanderwalk business seven years ago—the husband tried to—”
“I was on your task force. I remember.”
“Damned if Babe Vanderwalk didn’t come out of her coma. The hospital phoned. And then a lawyer phoned. Represents the family, they don’t want any fuss, they don’t want any publicity.”
“Mazel tov to the Vanderwalks. Can she talk?”
“She can talk. She’s normal. Lost a little weight, joints a little stiff, but she’s all there.”
“Does she remember anything?”
“Go see her and find out. I’m delegating you.”
Cardozo exhaled loudly. “Chief, you just handed me a one-legged John Doe.”
“You know the background, Vince. Go to Doctors Hospital, get a statement, and close the case. Five minutes.”
“I can’t control what she’s going to say. Her statement may open the case.”
“Get a statement that closes the case. Go up there tomorrow. They wake those patients up at six, seven o’clock. You don’t have to wait for visiting hours.”
“Chief, I honestly—”
“Thanks, Vince, I knew I could count on you.”
The receiver went dead in Cardozo’s hand. He looked at it a moment and then slammed it back onto the cradle.
Though it was seven years in the past, the Vanderwalk case still stoked old resentments in him. He’d worked his butt off collecting solid evidence, he’d avoided the minefields of the Miranda and Esposito decisions, the jury had convicted, and then on appeal the D.A. had accepted a plea bargain that let the killer off.
Except if Babe Vanderwalk was awake, the killer wasn’t a killer anymore.
Anyway, that’s tomorrow, Cardozo reminded himself. Today’s today.
He pushed Babe Vanderwalk Devens out of his head and began skimming fives. They were drearily familiar: ripped-up hookers, businessmen with no ID dead in trash barrels, family fights where somebody had taken out a knife or gun, stewardesses jumping out of their Third Avenue shared apartments—or had they been pushed? They were like old friends to him. He’d been staring at some of them for over ten years.
And they all concluded with the same words: NO NEW INVESTIGATIVE LEADS SINCE LAST REPORT .
The cases kept pouring in, dead bodies that had all been human beings, every one of them entitled to live till accident or natural death claimed them and, failing that, entitled to justice. It was his job to see they at least got justice. No homicide case was ever closed till it was cleared, but fewer than a third were cleared nowadays. That meant a backlog of over five hundred in the two two alone. A lot of killers were walking around on their own cognizance out there.
His eye went guiltily to the filing cabinet. The bottom drawer was wedged shut against an overflow of departmental orders that he had yet to get around to reading. The precinct was drowning in paper. Paper had become the measure of all things. It got you promoted, got you demoted, decided your salary, your rank, your standing in the department’s eyes. Paper was where it was at.
“Hey, Vince.” Tommy Daniels from the Photographic Unit came bounding through the door and clamped a hand on Cardozo’s shoulder. “Got the pictures you wanted of the ten eighteen.” He thrust out an envelope.
Cardozo slipped the glossies out of the manila envelope. It surprised him how young the dead man was: perhaps twenty-two years old, very blond, with medium-length, shiny hair. The eyes were long-lashed, the chin strong, almost challenging, with a cleft to it, the lips full but not quite pouting. A handsome
A voice cut into the ringing. Gruff. “O’Brien.”
“Chief? Vince. Just got your message.”
“Vince, the goddamnedest thing. Remember that Babe Vanderwalk business seven years ago—the husband tried to—”
“I was on your task force. I remember.”
“Damned if Babe Vanderwalk didn’t come out of her coma. The hospital phoned. And then a lawyer phoned. Represents the family, they don’t want any fuss, they don’t want any publicity.”
“Mazel tov to the Vanderwalks. Can she talk?”
“She can talk. She’s normal. Lost a little weight, joints a little stiff, but she’s all there.”
“Does she remember anything?”
“Go see her and find out. I’m delegating you.”
Cardozo exhaled loudly. “Chief, you just handed me a one-legged John Doe.”
“You know the background, Vince. Go to Doctors Hospital, get a statement, and close the case. Five minutes.”
“I can’t control what she’s going to say. Her statement may open the case.”
“Get a statement that closes the case. Go up there tomorrow. They wake those patients up at six, seven o’clock. You don’t have to wait for visiting hours.”
“Chief, I honestly—”
“Thanks, Vince, I knew I could count on you.”
The receiver went dead in Cardozo’s hand. He looked at it a moment and then slammed it back onto the cradle.
Though it was seven years in the past, the Vanderwalk case still stoked old resentments in him. He’d worked his butt off collecting solid evidence, he’d avoided the minefields of the Miranda and Esposito decisions, the jury had convicted, and then on appeal the D.A. had accepted a plea bargain that let the killer off.
Except if Babe Vanderwalk was awake, the killer wasn’t a killer anymore.
Anyway, that’s tomorrow, Cardozo reminded himself. Today’s today.
He pushed Babe Vanderwalk Devens out of his head and began skimming fives. They were drearily familiar: ripped-up hookers, businessmen with no ID dead in trash barrels, family fights where somebody had taken out a knife or gun, stewardesses jumping out of their Third Avenue shared apartments—or had they been pushed? They were like old friends to him. He’d been staring at some of them for over ten years.
And they all concluded with the same words: NO NEW INVESTIGATIVE LEADS SINCE LAST REPORT .
The cases kept pouring in, dead bodies that had all been human beings, every one of them entitled to live till accident or natural death claimed them and, failing that, entitled to justice. It was his job to see they at least got justice. No homicide case was ever closed till it was cleared, but fewer than a third were cleared nowadays. That meant a backlog of over five hundred in the two two alone. A lot of killers were walking around on their own cognizance out there.
His eye went guiltily to the filing cabinet. The bottom drawer was wedged shut against an overflow of departmental orders that he had yet to get around to reading. The precinct was drowning in paper. Paper had become the measure of all things. It got you promoted, got you demoted, decided your salary, your rank, your standing in the department’s eyes. Paper was where it was at.
“Hey, Vince.” Tommy Daniels from the Photographic Unit came bounding through the door and clamped a hand on Cardozo’s shoulder. “Got the pictures you wanted of the ten eighteen.” He thrust out an envelope.
Cardozo slipped the glossies out of the manila envelope. It surprised him how young the dead man was: perhaps twenty-two years old, very blond, with medium-length, shiny hair. The eyes were long-lashed, the chin strong, almost challenging, with a cleft to it, the lips full but not quite pouting. A handsome
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