DETECTIVE FIRST GRADE
Chapter 2

July 9th 3:45 P.M.

Detective Richie White was pounding on the apartment door and ringing the bell. No answer.
     Images of doom flashed through McKenna's mind. His doom. Every second the hallway was noisier and more crowded with uniformed police officers, breathing heavily. They sounded like a porno movie. The twelve flight journey up was grabbing everybody's lungs, including McKenna's. The constant crackle of voices from each cop's radio made it worse: "We need the Sergeant. We need Emergency Service. We need an ambulance." Everyone was needed at 277 McKeever Place, twelfth floor hallway, and everyone was coming. The circus had begun and the spotlight was fixed on McKenna, center ring. The other officers were asking him questions and he couldn't focus. All he could see was the small hole in the door and all he could concentrate on was the sound of moaning on the other side.
     How could this be? McKenna knew that he had hit the gunman with every shot. How could a bullet go through his body, go through a steel door, and hit somebody on the other side of the door? And who was the injured person, moaning with the pain caused by his bullet and unable to answer the door? He imagined the worst. A grandmother on her way to church. A small girl on her way to buy ice cream. The Police Commissioner sneaking out of his girlfriend's apartment. He concentrated on that one and started to feel better.
     Then things actually got better. White stood over the gunman's body with his ear to the door. "I hear lots of movement inside," he said. "Somebody's running around in there." Good. Next came a radio transmission from a cop outside the building. "There's a male Hispanic throwing guns from the window of the twelfth floor at 277 McKeever Place. We've got two automatics and a revolver so far. We need more units outside for crowd control." Better. Whoever was in apartment 12G was with the bad guys.
     White stood up and called McKenna over to the door. "This guy really stinks," he said, pointing down at the dead gunman.
     McKenna smelled it then. The gunman had defecated in his pants as he died. But White also had some good news.
     "Look at this, Brian. There's just a piece of sheet metal welded to the door where your bullet went through. It's painted over, the same color as the door. Knock on it." McKenna tapped the door around the edges. Solid steel. Typical project door. Then he knocked in the center where his bullet had gone through. Just a thin sheet of metal.
     "Alright!", McKenna said. "Drug dealers." Everyone in the projects knew the setup. Drug dealers cut illegal mail slots into their door. You want drugs, you knock. Put your money in the mail slot and the drugs come out the same way. Very clean arrangement. No face to face deals. No chance of the dealer getting robbed during the transaction. Except the New York City Housing Authority doesn't permit mail slots for that very reason. The mailboxes for each apartment are located in the building lobby. After a while, the other people who live on the drug dealer's floor start to complain, anonymously of course, about the steady stream of visitors to their neighbor's apartment. So every once in a while the Housing Authority maintenance crews pull out the mail slots, weld on a piece of sheet metal to close the opening, and paint the door. But the drug dealers are still there, inside.
     Lucky shot, McKenna thought. I managed to send a dealer a Special Delivery through his old mailbox.
     The elevator doors opened and the 71 Precinct Patrol Sergeant, an Emergency Service Sergeant, and two Emergency Service Police Officers came out.
     Short and young, the Patrol Sergeant looked annoyed by the scene that greeted him. His name tag said Rocco Diluvio. That grabbed McKenna's attention. Nobody but a pompous ass would put his first name on his name tag, McKenna thought. Especially if it was Rocco.
     The Emergency Service Sergeant was the exact opposite. He was big, grey, with a heavy flak vest, and he looked delighted to be there doing the job he was trained to do. Everyone knew Sergeant Leo Smart. He was a legendary character. This job was going to get done right.
     The two Emergency Service cops with him wore the same vests and helmets and were loaded with equipment. One carried a large machine that looked like a combination portable generator and vacuum cleaner. The other dragged what looked like a do-it-yourself swimming pool kit, boxes of heavy rubber lining and steel braces. Both of them had shotguns slung on their shoulders.
     Emergency Service went right to work. They tied a taut rope from the doorknob of apartment 12G to the doorknob of apartment 12H, the adjacent apartment, so that neither door could be opened. Then the two cops began setting up the mysterious apparatus.
     Rocco Diluvio watched them for a moment, then turned to the gunman's body. "Who's the shooter?", he asked.
     "I am," said McKenna.
     "Then I don't want to talk to you yet." He turned to White and asked, "You his partner?"
     "The honor is mine for today, Sarge."
     "Did you fire any shots?"
     "No."
     "Good. You I can talk to. Tell me what you've got inside and why we're all here."
     White very briefly described the chase. When he was finished, Sergeant Diluvio said, "Tell me where there might be any evidence."
     "Spent shells in building hallway. Spent shells and empty magazine on seventh floor stairwell landing. Oh yeah, McKenna's shoes down on sixth floor landing. And over here..." White took him over to the twelfth floor stairwell entrance and pointed out McKenna's three expended shells.
     The young Patrol Sergeant looked McKenna over. He took in the torn pants, the ripped shirt, and then he focused on McKenna's left hand. McKenna looked at his hand and saw that it was bleeding from a scrape across his knuckles. He didn't feel any pain and figured that he got the injury when he was tripped outside.
     "You want to go to the hospital, Detective McKenna?" Rocco Diluvio asked. "You look like you could use some kind of treatment."
     "Maybe later, Sarge. I don't feel a thing yet."
     There were now about fifteen uniformed cops in the hallway. As their Patrol Sergeant took careful note of them, they started slowly drifting toward the freedom offered by the stairwell door.
     Rocco Diluvio stopped the drift with the magic words: "Everybody's on overtime." He sent two cops to the sixth and seventh floor stairwell landings to establish a crime scene. Three cops went to the lobby and another one to the tree outside the building where McKenna had taken cover from the gunman's bullets.
     "Nobody touches anything," he told them. "And nobody up or down the stairs through the Crime Scene."
     Diluvio posted a cop at the stairwell and another at the elevator, with orders to permit no civilians or any more cops on the floor unless they were accompanied by a boss or acting on higher orders. "And no press," he said.
     He turned to McKenna. "Where's your car?"
     "We left it in the middle of Empire Boulevard," White interjected. "Want me to move it?"
     "Not you," the Sergeant said. "Give me the keys." He tossed them to one of the uniformed cops. "You take care of this."
     He took his radio off his belt and gave a rapid series of requests to the dispatcher. "Seven One Sergeant to Central, K. I need the Crime Scene Unit, the Hostage Negotiating Team, the Brooklyn Homicide Squad, the Medical Examiner, and a Supervisor from the Seven One Detective Squad to respond to the twelfth floor hallway of 277 McKeever Place. And the Duty Captain."
     The dispatcher confirmed that everybody was already on the way. Then Rocco Diluvio turned to McKenna and asked, "Anything else?"
     With a smile that hid his growing respect for the young Sergeant, McKenna pointed to his feet and Diluvio sent a cop down to the sixth floor landing to get McKenna's shoes.
     He next directed his attention to Sergeant Smart. "Can I do anything for you, Leo?"
     "Yeah, kid. This skell's body's in my way, and he's smelling up the hallway. I also need a layout of this apartment," pointing to the doorway of 12G.
     Diluvio thought this over for a moment. Then he had two uniformed cops pick the dead man up and carry him down the hall to just beyond the stairwell. "Nobody touches that body," he ordered.
     A cop went off to the Housing Authority office for a diagram of 12G. Diluvio stepped to the doorway of the apartment and picked up the dead man's weapon, a TEC 9 automatic pistol. It resembled a rectangular box, with a two inch barrel protruding from one end and a pistol grip and trigger attached to the bottom.
     "Looks nasty," Rocco Diluvio said. He gave the pistol to White. "Your partner's going to be spending a lot of time talking to the Chiefs and the D.A., so it looks like these are going to be your collars, right?"
     "Sounds O.K. to me, as long as my boss agrees."
      White took a pad from his pocket, handed it to McKenna, then crouched in the hallway and unloaded the weapon.
     "One live round in the chamber, a magazine loaded with fourteen rounds of live 9 mm ammunition. Weapon defaced, serial number filed off." McKenna wrote as White was talking. White smelled the muzzle and chamber of the weapon. "Evidence of recent discharge present," he said as he stood up.
     White gave the weapon back to the Sergeant, who handed it to a nearby officer.
     "Welcome to the case, Rogers," Diluvio said. "You're now the Official Property Officer. Keep track of everything recovered and write it all down."
     There were still a few happy uniformed cops left in the hallway without an assignment. Diluvio took care of that, telling them, "Go downstairs to help the units outside with crowd control."
     Sergeant Rocco Diluvio, Mister Personality himself, had made everybody less happy but more productive in the shortest time possible.
     An Emergency Medical Service ambulance crew arrived on the floor to officially pronounce the gunman dead. The attendant leaned over the body and felt for a heartbeat, then stood up and said, "Yup, he's dead." He looked at his watch. "Officially pronounced dead at four-oh-six P.M."
     McKenna took the attendant's name and wrote it down on his pad. Diluvio told the ambulance crew to stand by until they had cleared out apartment 12G.
     Meanwhile the Emergency Service crew had been busy working on the door. They took the rubber lining and placed it all around the doorframe of apartment 12G. The steel braces held the rubber lining in place. It looked like they were building another rubber door in front of the apartment door. Two more Emergency Service cops came up with shotguns and additional tools. Leo Smart took a crowbar and hammer and used them to widen the bullet hole in the door by ripping away the sheet metal that covered the former mail slot.
     Smart bent over and peeked through the opening. "There's a male Hispanic lying right in front of the door. He's breathing, but it looks like he took the bullet in the chest. There's another male Hispanic at the far end of the apartment. He appears to be unarmed right now. He's looking at me and giving me the finger." The Emergency Service cops finished their work at the door.
     While McKenna tied his newly-returned shoes, he stared at the contraption. "Nice job. How does it work?"
     He got a quick lesson on the Rabbit Tool from one of the Emergency Service cops. "Start the generator and a pump fills the rubber bladder that's forced into the doorframe with air. Eventually, the pressure becomes too much for the door. It starts to bend a little and pulls the hinges and the lock from the doorframe. Door goes down. It's the only thing short of dynamite that works on these project doors."
     Rocco Diluvio knocked a few times next door on 12F. After a few moments it opened just a crack. All McKenna could see of the occupant was a black hand holding the edge of the door slightly open.
     Diluvio said, "Sorry to bother you, but we're going to blast your neighbors out in a couple of minutes. You got a phone?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "We'd like to use your apartment as a temporary headquarters. I hope you don't mind. As a matter of fact, you might want to go to the store or something, because there might be some more shooting around here."
     Enough said. The circus continued. McKenna was reminded of the clown car when eight children and five adults left the apartment and headed for the elevator. Then came a large black woman pushing an old man in a wheelchair. "It's all yours, officer," she said and joined the rest of the displaced occupants.
     The elevator door opened. Out stepped Deputy Inspector Jerimiah O'Shaughnessy, the recently promoted Commanding Officer of the 71st Precinct. Not the Duty Captain as everyone expected, but something worse.
     O'Shaughnessy was known far and wide as Deputy Dog Dick. Rumor had it that he got that name while working as a Lieutenant Desk Officer in a Harlem precinct. One day he was busy berating a prisoner who had a sense of humor, something O'Shaughnessy lacked. What he did have was bright red hair and a tendency to blush violently whenever he was angry, embarrassed, or under pressure. The more O'Shaughnessy yelled at the prisoner, the redder he got, and the more the prisoner convulsed with laughter. Finally, while the entire four-to-twelve platoon of that Harlem precinct was standing in front of the Desk waiting to be inspected before they went on patrol, the prisoner said to O'Shaughnessy, "You know Lieutenant, you're red in the head like a dick on a dog."
     That was it. From then on he was Lieutenant Dog Dick, until it was Captain Dog Dick; now it was Deputy Dog Dick, which the cops in the Seven One Precinct agreed had a nice ring to it. They were all looking forward to the day when he would get promoted to full Inspector and finally be transferred. Then he would be the Dog Dick Inspector. He had the perfect personality to eventually be the Chief Dog Dick. O'Shaughnessy's arrival was good news for no one. He was the perfect act to follow Sergeant Rocco Diluvio.
     Diluvio saluted O'Shaughnessy and brought him into the new temporary headquarters to fill him in. The assembled officers thought that it was a good idea to wait in the hall. After five minutes Diluvio came to the door and told McKenna that the Inspector wanted to see him. McKenna found O'Shaughnessy standing in the living room of the small apartment. He was on the phone, and by his deferential manner, McKenna guessed that he was talking to the Borough Commander, who probably wanted to know what the hell was going on. McKenna saluted and O'Shaughnessy asked, "How long have you been in Brooklyn this time, McKenna?"
     "Two weeks, Inspector."
     "Why you here?"
     "A little incident in Manhattan with a diplomat. I haven't gone to Department Trial yet." McKenna mentioned the Department Trial for a reason. Under the rules of the game, O'Shaughnessy couldn't ask McKenna specifics about the incident.
     "So we're stuck again. Two weeks and you've already managed to get bullets spread all over the borough, shoot somebody in the back, and maybe get some innocent people shot. Not to mention you caused a radio car accident when one of my cars was rushing here to help you out. You're lucky no one was hurt. But I'm still short a car now, thanks to you. Tell me, McKenna, did this whole mess have anything to do with your assignment today?"
     "No sir. Just a crime in progress that we observed on our way back to the Station House."
     "And what was that crime in progress, McKenna?"
     "Illegal Possession of a Loaded Firearm, sir."
     There it was, a little red, starting at the neck. "Care to tell me more, McKenna."
     "I'd rather wait until I spoke to my delegate, Inspector. You understand. Just in case there are any criminal charges against me later. I would hate to have you testifying against me for something I might tell you now."
     The red had reached his cheeks and was still climbing. "I'm talking man to man, McKenna. Just so I have something to tell the Chief when he asks me. I've got a large, disorderly crowd outside and there's going to be a lot of press. You've got to give me more."
     "No offense, Inspector. But I think I'd rather talk to my delegate first. Then he can talk to the union lawyer, and our lawyer can whisper to the Chief and tell him what he needs to know."
     O'Shaughnessy was red right to the top of his head, Ready for Blast Off.
     Just then Diluvio came in and said, "Inspector, they've got a lot of drugs in the apartment and they're flushing them down the toilet. The Emergency Service Sergeant wants permission to blow the door and go in before they flush it all."
     Countdown Delayed. O'Shaughnessy snarled, "I'll talk to you later about this, Detective McKenna. All I can say is that you'd better have your story straight."
     The men went back into the hall to see what was going on and to await the Inspector's decision.
     Smart was still looking through the hole in the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw O'Shaughnessy, stood up and saluted. "They just started flushing drugs down the toilet, Inspector."
     "How do you know, Sergeant?"
     "A minute ago I saw one of the guys inside bring about ten one kilo bags of dope into the bathroom. Then I heard the toilet flush. What do you think, Inspector?"
     The toilet in apartment 12G was flushed again and the sound was clearly heard by everyone standing in the hallway.
     "Don't worry about it too much, Inspector," Smart said. "I called our dispatcher and ordered a couple of Emergency men who were on their way up to cut the water off into the building. It should only take them a couple of minutes, but it might take longer. That'll stop our pal inside from flushing his dope."
     O'Shaughnessy didn't look happy. He was thinking the situation over when the toilet was flushed again. Smart decided that it was time to have some fun with O'Shaughnessy. Fun for Smart consisted of forcing the big bosses to make a decision. They hated that.
     "It flushes every couple of minutes, as soon as the tank fills up," said the old Sergeant. "We're losing a lot of evidence. I've got another two men coming up with a bullet proof shield. We're ready to blow the door and go in now. It only takes about a minute to get this generator going. As soon as you give the word, Inspector."
     Without answering, O'Shaughnessy went back into the temporary headquarters apartment and turned on the water faucet in the kitchen.
     Smart winked at McKenna and McKenna replied with a smile.
     After two minutes and a few more flushes the water stopped. O'Shaughnessy came back out and told Smart that the water was off.
     "I already knew that, Inspector," replied the Sergeant. "The guy inside just asked me what happened to the water."
     "The people inside may still be armed and just waiting for us," O'Shaughnessy said. "There might be ten people in there. We'll wait for the Hostage Negotiating Team to try and talk them out."
     Smart took these instructions in stride. He didn't look surprised. O'Shaughnessy had just given him the Official Department Line.
     Two more Emergency Service cops came up. They had Tasers and a large plexiglass bullet-proof shield. With them was the cop who had been sent to the Housing Authority office for the apartment plans, which he gave to Smart. Four rooms: two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. With O'Shaughnessy listening, Smart and Rocco Diluvio made their own plan to deal with the people inside 12G.
     O'Shaughnessy added his two cents before he approved the plan. "If and when the time comes, only Emergency Service men with flak jackets and helmets go in."
     Rocco Diluvio and Smart looked at each other. This was news to nobody.
     "When the apartment's secure, White as the arresting officer, and his partner, McKenna, will be the search team," O'Shaughnessy added.
     Then Lieutenant Schnieder arrived. He was McKenna and White's boss, the Commanding Officer of the Seven One Precinct Detective Squad.
     "Glad you're here, Lieutenant," O'Shaughnessy said with genuine sincerity. "Do you need to be filled in."
     "No sir. I think I've got the picture. The Chief called me in my office."
     "Good. You can supervise the search team."
     "That's what I'm here for."
     O'Shaugnessy was happy to be off the hook. He had managed to place responsibility for the search with the Detective Bureau. If anything went wrong, it wasn't his fault.
     It started suddenly and ended quickly. Smart, who was looking through the hole in the door, suddenly shouted, "Something's up."
     He had everybody's attention. "The skell's bringing the dope to the living room window. He's got a knife. Shit! He's ripping the bags open and pouring the dope out the window."
     At that moment the radio crackled with a message from a unit outside. "He's throwing cocaine out the window. There's coke all over the grass. We need more units for crowd control. They're going crazy."
     That did it. This made for bad headlines. O'Shaughnessy gave the order. "Take the door."
     Leo Smart backed away, reached down and started the generator. Its racket was deafening. The rubber bladder inflated and the Emergency Service men deployed behind their plexiglass shield. The door burst off its hinges and fell into the apartment, landing on top of the wounded man in the hallway. The cops ran over the door and the man under it. The last one in pulled the door off the shot man and handcuffed him. While they searched the apartment, McKenna stood outside. Two minutes later they came out with a second handcuffed prisoner. It was over.
     "Ready for the search team," Smart said on his way out.
     Rocco Diluvio lifted his radio and cancelled the call for the Hostage Negotiating Team. McKenna breathed a sigh of relief. We would've been here till tomorrow night if the Hostage Negotiating Team had gotten here before Emergency Service knocked the door down.
     Lieutenant Schnieder, McKenna, White, and Rogers, the uniformed officer who had been designated as the Property Officer, went into the apartment together. They were to confiscate all evidence and contraband that was in plain view. They worked room by room, starting with the bathroom. Two unopened one kilo clear plastic bags filled with compressed cocaine sat next to the toilet bowl. There were also five ripped clear plastic bags with some cocaine powder left in them scattered around the bathroom. McKenna saw a lot of cocaine powder floating in the toilet bowl, so he went into the kitchen and found a ladle and a large pitcher with a cover. He scooped the powder from the bowl and put it in the pitcher. He gave everything to Rogers, and then they started on the living room.
     On the window sill were seven kilo bags of cocaine and a knife. A long table along the wall held two digital scales, stacks of unused clear plastic bags, a compressing machine, and a bag sealing machine.
     McKenna looked out the window. Directly below, twelve stories down, the grass was covered with white powder. It had a real shine to it. There were also a lot of large white rocks of coke on the grass. The stuff was really compressed. The scene below was one of barely controlled pandemonium. About fifty feet from the building a line of twenty cops struggled to maintain formation against a crowd of what looked like two hundred people. McKenna heard the wail of sirens; more cops were still arriving. A television news van and the reporters were just beginning to set up, raising the antenna of the van and running wires to a spot near the line of police from which they would broadcast. McKenna yelled to the cops downstairs and a few of them looked up. He threw a stack of unused clear plastic bags and the ladle out the window. A Sergeant directed two cops to the stuff on the ground and they started scooping up the rocks of coke.
     "Rogers!" Lieutenant Schnieder said, "Bring whatever we've got so far into the temporary headquarters."
     Schnieder, McKenna, and White went to the first bedroom. It was a real mess. The bed was unmade and clothes were thrown all around the room. A blue canvass travel bag lay on the bed and McKenna opened it. Money and lots of it. The bag was stuffed with wrapped stacks of bills: Twenties, Fifties, and Hundreds.
     McKenna turned to Lieutenant Schnieder. "Plain view?"
     Schnieder smiled and answered, "It was open when I got in here."
     Good enough, McKenna thought. He gave the open bag to the Lieutenant and they went to the second bedroom. It had been used as an office of some kind. A small desk along the wall was stacked with notebooks. McKenna opened one; it was a record of drug transactions. He scooped up the pile and asked Schnieder, "We got enough yet?"
     "More than enough for us. We're not Narcotics. As it is, we're going to be counting this stuff all night."
     They went back to the living room and helped Rogers carry the rest of the evidence to the temporary headquarters next door. Lieutenant Schnieder logged down the time in the Temporary Headquarters log which had been set up. It was now four-nineteen. Under five minutes in there, McKenna thought. That should sound good in court.
     McKenna and White left Lieutenant Schnieder, who had to tell O'Shaughnessy what they had found in apartment 12G. In the hallway were the prisoners, Rocco Diluvio, Sergeant Smart, and about ten uniformed cops. Smart was busy supervising his men while they packed up their equipment. The shot prisoner still groaned on a stretcher while being worked on by the ambulance attendant. Standing near him was the other occupant of the apartment. He was still handcuffed and a uniformed cop held him by the arm. The prisoner watched the attendant work on his injured partner. He didn't seem to be showing much interest. Diluvio was obviously waiting for the detectives to search their prisoners.
     McKenna and White walked over to the standing prisoner. "What's your name, McKenna said.
     "Jorge Chavez," he replied.
     "What's your friend's name?"
     "I don't know that man. I never saw him before in my life," Chavez replied with a straight face.
     O.K., thought McKenna. These guys are going to go the tough route. Smart. He leaned over the stretcher and asked the injured man what his name was.
     "Francisco Torres," he replied.
     "And who's your friend?", asked McKenna.
     Torres closed his eyes and said, "I don't know him."
     Two tough guys. They both know the system.
     White searched Torres while he was being treated and found nothing, no wallet, no money. Then Chavez. He had a wallet with two twenties in it. White put the money in Chavez's pocket and gave the wallet to McKenna. Then McKenna went over to the dead gunman and lifted his head so that the two prisoners could see the gunman's face. "You guys ever see this man before?" Two defiant stares returned McKenna's gaze.
     McKenna gave up on them. He asked the ambulance attendant, "Which hospital are you bringing Torres to?"
     "Kings County."
     McKenna turned to Rocco Diluvio. "Sarge, could you have Chavez brought to the Seven One Squad Office? And please, don't let him talk to anyone."
     "O.K." Diluvio relayed these directions to two uniformed cops and they prepared to leave with Chavez on the same elevator as Torres, the ambulance crew, and the cop who had been assigned to guard Torres in the hospital.
     The elevator doors opened and out stepped Detective First Grade Timmothy D'Arcey and two detectives that McKenna knew from the Crime Scene Unit. D'Arcey was the Vice-President of the Detectives Endowment Association, the detectives union. Expensively dressed and neatly groomed, he looked like he had just fallen off the cover of Fortune Magazine. McKenna had figured that D'Arcey would be coming and he was glad to see him. D'Arcey pulled McKenna to the side while the Crime Scene Unit detectives started their task of photographing and measuring the hallway and the body.
     "Looks like I'm becoming your full time delegate, Brian. Did you tell them anything?"
     "Nothing."
     "How about O'Shaughnessy?"
     "Nothing."
     "Good!" said D'Arcey. "That O'Shaughnessy is a treacherous prick. He might love to hang you. We have to find a place where we can talk. I've got our lawyer coming and he'll meet us later at the Station House. Until then, say nothing about this shooting to anybody unless I'm standing next to you. Got it?"
     "Of course."
     "C'mon. We'll go up to the roof to talk."
     "Can't leave just yet, Timmy. The dead guy still hasn't been searched, and I've got to be a witness for that."
     "O.K. We can wait."
     The Crime Scene men finished photographing the hallway and they asked Diluvio to have the body moved back to the place and position that it was in when he first saw it. White supervised two cops who made the final placement in front of 12G. Rogers went into the Temporary Headquarters and got the TEC 9 automatic pistol. He gave it to White, who placed it back down by the dead gunman's right hand.
     Nice job, McKenna thought. Like he had never been moved.
     The Crime Scene men took a series of pictures. When they finished, White crouched over the body, ready to begin the search. Rogers stood over him, taking notes. White started by emptying the dead man's pockets. There was a good leather wallet in the back one. White opened it and found a Florida Driver's license with a picture on of the dead man. He was Raoul Camarena, with a Fort Myers Beach address, date of birth September 2, 1949, 42 years old. There was also a Social Security card in the same name. In the rest of the dead man's pockets White found lots of cash. He counted out $1,461.26 and gave it to Rogers. Then White removed the jewelry, a gold horseshoe ring studded with small diamonds on the right hand and a gold chain with a crucifix around the neck. Rogers got that too.
     White pulled off the dead man's jacket, revealing a large leather shoulder holster. White started to take the holster off and stopped. He had felt something. He looked up at McKenna and said, "He's got something under his shirt."
     The cops' interest was aroused. McKenna helped White unbuckle and remove the shoulder holster. White pulled the dead man's shirt over his head. Taped together to his back with surgical tape were a pink plastic rectangular box and a blood-stained envelope. White ripped the box and the envelope away.
     Everyone was now leaning over the body. White opened the pink box and his head jerked back, startled. A finger with a ring attached fell out and landed on the dead man's back as the box snapped closed. Nobody moved. The finger had been recently and cleanly severed from its owner's hand. There was still some uncongealed blood visible at the spot where the finger used to be attached. The finger belonged to a white male. There was thick black hair on the knuckles. It was clean and the nail was neat and cut fairly short. The ring on the finger was a large heavy gold ring, with a crest cut into the face. It was old and the gold around the crest was worn.
     D'Arcey broke the tension. "Well, there's something you don't see everyday. A man with eleven fingers."
     McKenna picked up the finger and examined it. He eased the ring off and handed it to Rogers, then took the pink plastic box and the envelope from White's hands and put the finger back inside. The box looked familiar to him. Then he remembered. Angelita, his girlfriend, carried an identical box around in her pocket book. She used it to store her once-a-month necessities. He placed the box on the dead man's back and started to open the envelope. "This should be interesting," he said.
     It was. The envelope contained two color Polaroid photos. The gunman's blood had not seeped through the envelope; the photos were undamaged.
     The first was of a white male, about thirty years old. He was seated on a chair and holding a copy of a newspaper across his chest with his right hand.
     The second was a close-up which showed the same man's right hand holding the newspaper. The pinky of his right hand had recently been surgically removed. There were antiseptic orange markings at the base of the hand. Black stitches were visible where the wound was closed and the hand showed extreme swelling in that area. The ring finger of the right hand shown in the photo appeared to be the same severed finger which the detectives had just found, with the same gold ring on it. The newspaper in the photo was the Boston Globe and the main headline read "MAYOR CAVES IN ON BUS STRIKE".
     McKenna realized that the man in the photo was now minus at least two fingers.
     Rocco Diluvio went to tell O'Shaughnessy. As soon as he left D'Arcey said, "Brian, I don't think that you have to worry about Dog Dick anymore. You just stumbled into a major case. Let's go talk."
     McKenna said to White, "Tell anyone who might be looking for me that I went to look for a bathroom to wash up." McKenna and D'Arcey took the elevator to the top floor of the building, walking up the last flight of stairs to the roof. There was a fence along the edge of the roof and they went over to talk. McKenna told D'Arcey everything that had happened, leaving out nothing.
     Below them on the ground the crowd had swelled considerably, and so had the number of cops. They could even see a cop in a white shirt, a Captain, walking up and down the line of cops giving orders to Sergeants to adjust the placement of their men. They must be miserable, McKenna thought. There was a lot of yelling going on, but from the roof the two detectives couldn't tell exactly what the yelling was about. July in the ghetto. There were now three television news vans set up, and a Fire Department Engine Company standing by. Two cops who were being closely supervised by a Sergeant completed picking up the rocks of cocaine from the ground and placed them in two of the bags that McKenna had thrown from the window. The grass still had a white sheen to it.
     Then things really got interesting. The Captain waved to the fire trucks and the fireman started unrolling their hoses. The crowd then realized that the firemen were going to wash away the cocaine from the grass; they were about to be deprived of a potential free source of happiness. The chant started, over and over, "Leave It, Leave It." It sounded like thunder to McKenna and D'Arcey. The crowd pressed against the line of cops, and the cops began to slowly lose ground. More sirens revved in the distance. The firemen started working faster, hurrying to finish. Some bottles thrown from the crowd landed close to the firemen, but they kept on hooking up their hoses.
     The line of cops standing shoulder to shoulder against the crowd started to give in places. More police cars arrived. The cops ran from their cars and reinforced the line by pushing them forward from behind. The added police manpower made the difference. They held the line, the firemen turned on the water and quickly sprayed the grass. It was over.
     The crowd stopped chanting and pushing, and the Captain began directing police cars to leave. The mob had lost its cohesiveness and its reason for being. McKenna and D'Arcey watched as a large disorderly crowd, seemingly intent on riot, turned into simply a lot of people on a crowded ghetto sidewalk.
     McKenna finished his story and D'Arcey analyzed the pitfalls and trouble spots for him. "It seems that you shot him in the back without giving him any chance to surrender. That's not great when it's played on prime time."
     "He was good. Maybe better than me. He already had tried to kill me three times. He had to go and I wasn't going to give him another chance."
     "A nice `Police, Don't Move' would have been better," said D'Arcey. "How well do you know Richie White?"
     "Hardly."
     "And how about the two cops who came up the stairs with him?"
     "Not at all."
     "Well, I know Richie really well. He's a stand-up guy and a hard worker. I'll find out who the two cops were and I'll talk to their P.B.A. delegate. We'll fix it. Just remember, `Police, Don't Move'. Now, I don't want you talking to anyone until Harry McCrystal gets here. He's the best lawyer we've got and he'll know just how to handle this. The D.A. and a few Chiefs are going to be at the Station House, so you're going to the hospital for now to be treated for your wounds and for trauma. Remember, you were just forced to take the life of a fellow human being in the line of duty and you're really shaken up. Got it?"
     "You're right, Timmy. I'm really broken up and I've got to talk to a shrink. I just can't bring myself to talk to anyone else yet. I don't want anyone to see me crying. How am I doing?"
     "Perfect! Let's get the ball rolling." They walked down the stairs and took the elevator down to the twelfth floor. When the doors opened there was O'Shaughnessy, looking right at them. He had been waiting for them. He seemed to be smiling as they stepped out. "Brian! Glad you're here. I need to have a couple of words with you. A lot's been happening."
     McKenna and D'Arcey they looked at each other. Brian? Did he say Brian?, McKenna asked himself. I thought this man hated my guts. A lot must have been happening. Dog Dick has lost his mind. Brian?
     D'Arcey was the first to recover. "If you don't mind, Inspector, I'd like to be there while you're talking to Detective McKenna."
     "Of course, Timmy. Love to have you. Come on into the temporary headquarters." Timmy? There he goes again. Something's up.
     The two detectives and McKenna followed O'Shaughnessy into the living room of the temporary headquarters. He was still smiling and he exuded good will. McKenna looked down to make sure that he wasn't standing on a trap door that would drop him into an alligator pit.
     "Brian," O'Shaughnessy began, "it looks like you've stumbled onto something here. A kidnapping. A major case. A very news-worthy case. Stopping a dangerous armed felon and recovering a substantial amount of money and drugs. Good job. I just wish that you would've searched the body a little earlier. But, I understand that you were just following procedures. If I would've known a little more a little bit earlier, maybe we wouldn't have had to get so cranky with each other. Maybe I was a little wrong."
     Wrong?, McKenna thought. Deputy Inspectors of Police are never wrong unless a Chief tells him that he is. So that's it. There's a Chief in this picture somewhere.
     O'Shaughnessy continued. "There's already been a lot of interest generated. We're going to try and keep the press in the dark until we know more about this case. We have no active kidnapping cases right now and Chief Brunette is checking with the Boston Police. We'll know more in a little while. But until then, nothing to the press. I've already talked to my men."
     Chief Brunette. Ray Brunette, the Chief of Detectives. He's got Dog Dick shaking, McKenna thought.
     "The press won't get anything from me," McKenna said.
     "As a matter of fact," O'Shaughnessy said, "I just talked to Chief Brunette. He told me that it sounded like great police work on your part, Brian. When I think about it, I have to agree with him. You've done a great job. He wants me to iron out any little wrinkles in this shooting matter before he gets here."
     "Chief Brunette is coming here?" asked D'Arcey.
     "Yes. We're going to meet him at the Station House. He's not crazy about the Boston Chief of Police and he wants to embarrass him a little by solving one of his crimes for him. Plus get some good coverage for us."
     D'Arcey thought this new piece of information over for a minute and said, "Before the Chief gets here, Inspector, I'd like to take Detective McKenna to the hospital. He's been shot at, he's injured, and he's just killed a man. He's pretty shaken up. I even think that he should go sick."
     "Of course, Tim. Get him treated. But Brian, if you do have to go sick, please stop by the Station House before you go home. I think that the Chief might want to congratulate you himself."
     "Sure, Inspector. Whatever you say," McKenna answered. The two detectives turned and left O'Shaughnessy, both of them marvelling at this dramatic turn of events. Popped out of the frying pan and into the Pot of Gold.
     They had to wait at the door of the Temporary Headquarters which was blocked by a collapsible stretcher. Two Morgue Attendants had arrived and had opened a black body bag on the stretcher in front of McKenna and D'Arcey. The attendants lifted the dead gunman onto the stretcher, leaving his head hanging over the end, and began to zip the body into the bag.
     McKenna took a final look at the face of the loser. His eyes had glazed over and his mouth hung open. Then McKenna saw something. It looked to him like there was something white in the dead man's mouth. McKenna bent down and squinted. He was right. There was a crumpled, rolled up piece of paper in the dead man's mouth.
     Why would he try to hide or swallow something unless it was important? McKenna put his fingers in and pulled the paper out. The ball was chewed up and slimey with blood and saliva. The Morgue Attendants and D'Arcey were watching McKenna with interest as he unrolled the small ball of paper and spread it on the dead man's chest. There were seven numbers written on it. A telephone number. McKenna recognized the exchange code, 860, the code for Spanish Harlem in Manhattan, where McKenna had been assigned before his recent fall from grace.
     McKenna took a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped up the paper in the handkerchief, and put it back in his pocket. Then he walked into apartment 12G, past the Seven One Precinct uniformed officer assigned to guard the apartment. D'Arcey followed him in. McKenna went to the bathroom and began washing his hands while he thought. By the time he finished drying his hands, he reached a decision. He said to D'Arcey, "Let's keep this telephone number quiet for now, O.K.?"
     "What telephone number, Brian. I didn't see anything and nobody talks to Morgue Attendants. Let's get to the hospital. You're the Star of the Show and your fans are waiting."

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