Cop Hater (87th Precinct, #1)

by Ed McBain

Lieutenant Byrnes was as hot as any man in the squadroom. His office was just to the left of the slatted dividing railing, and it had a large corner window, but the window was wide open and not a breath of a breeze came through it. The reporter sitting opposite him looked cool. The reporter’s name was Savage, and the reporter was wearing a blue seersucker suit and a dark‐blue Panama, and the reporter was smoking a cigarette and casually puffing the smoke up at the ceiling where the heat held it in a solid blue‐gray mass.

“Anybody could’ve done it,” Byrnes said. “For all I know, you did it.”

“We’ve got the gangs under control. This precinct isn’t the garden spot of the city, Savage, but we like to feel we’re doing the best job possible here. Now I realize your newspaper may take offense at that, but we really try, Savage, we honestly try to do our little jobs.” “Do I detect sarcasm in your voice, Lieutenant?” Savage asked. “Sarcasm is a weapon of the intellectual, Savage. Everybody, especially your newspaper, knows that cops are just stupid, plodding beasts of burden.”

“The gang phenomenon is a peculiar one to understand,” Byrnes said. “I’m not saying we’ve got it licked, but we do have it under control. If we’ve stopped the street rumbles, and the knifings and shootings, then the gangs have become nothing more than social clubs. As long as they stay that way, I’m happy.”

The call from Danny Gimp came in fifty minutes. The desk sergeant took the call and then plugged it in to Carella’s line.

“I found Ordiz.”

“Okay, Detective Carella. You want this dope, I’ll be in Jenny’s in five minutes. Bring some loot.”

Carella had come down in a squad car driven by a young rookie named Kling. The squad car was parked outside now, with Kling leaning against the fender, his head erect, sweltering even in his summer blues. Tufts of blond hair stuck out of his lightweight hat. He was hot. He was hot as hell.

“You come on a social call?” she asked Carella, winking. “If I can’t have you, Mama Luz,” Carella said, “I don’t want anybody.” Kling blinked and then wiped the sweatband of his hat. “For you, toro,” Mama Luz said, winking again, “Mama Luz does anything. For you, Mama Luz is a young girl again.” “You’ve always been a young girl,” Carella said, and he slapped her on the backside and then said, “Where’s Ordiz?”

“Does Ordiz have a gun?” “Do I shake down my guests?” Mama Luz said. “I don’t think he has a gun, Stevie. You will not shoot up the works, will you? This has been a quiet day.” “No, I will not shoot up the works,” Carella said. “Show me where he is.”

“The door at the end of the hall. No blood, Stevie, please. With this one, you do not need blood. He is half‐dead already.”

Carella sighed and looked at Kling. “What’re you gonna do, kid?” he said. “I’m in love.” “I never understand detectives,” Kling said.

Carella checked with the men Ordiz had named. Each of them was willing to swear that he’d been at the poker game from 10:30 on the night of July 23 to 4:00 A.M. on the morning of July 24. Ordiz’s landlady reluctantly admitted she had spent the night of the 24th and the morning of the 25th in Ordiz’s room. Ordiz had solid alibis for the times someone had spent killing Reardon and Foster. When Bush came back with his report on Flannagan, the boys were right back where they’d started. “He’s got an alibi as long as the Texas Panhandle,” Bush said.

Savage studied his drink. There had been trouble between The Grovers and a cop—a detective, in fact. So his theory was not quite as far‐fetched as the good lieutenant tried to make it.

The two men were Steve Carella and a patrolman in street clothes—a patrolman named Bert Kling.

“They’re really pushing on this one, aren’t they?” “Lots of pressure,” he said. “I think the Old Man is scared he’s next. “I’ll bet it’s all over,” Alice said. “I don’t think there’ll be another killing.” “You can never tell,” Bush said.

“Bush?” “Yes?” “This is Havilland. You better get down here right away.” “What’s the matter?” Bush asked. “You know that young rookie Kling?” “Yeah?” “He was just shot in a bar on Culver.”

“What about it, Santez?” “A mistake,” Santez said. “That’s for damn sure.” “I mean, we didn’t know he was a cop.” “Why’d you jump him?” “A mistake, I tell you.” “Start from the beginning.”

We don’t want law trouble. If this jerk goes back to his paper and starts printing lies about how we’re mixed in, that ain’t good for our rep.

“Thinking he was Savage.” “Sure. How the hell we supposed to know he’s a cop instead? He had on a light‐blue suit, and he had blond hair, like this reporter creep. So we burned him. It was a mistake.”

You’re a bunch of hoods with fancy jackets, and a seventeen‐year‐old hood is no less dangerous than a fifty‐year‐old hood.

You shot a man in my precinct territory—and that means you’re in trouble.

“Lieutenant, fella outside wants to see you,” he said. “Who?” “Guy named Savage.

“Kick him down the steps,” Byrnes said, and he went back into his office.

Homicide, if it doesn’t happen too close to home, is a fairly interesting thing.

For cops, shocking as the notion may sound at first, are human beings.

None of them like to draw lineup, especially when it’s hot.

Steve Carella and Hank Bush drew lineup on Thursday, July 27.

“The city,” Carella said. “What?” “Look at it. What a goddamn monster.” “A hairy bastard,” Bush agreed. “But I love her.” “Yeah,” Bush said noncommittally.

The room was used for indoor sport, lectures, swearing in of rookies, occasional meetings of the Police Benevolent Association or the Police Honor Legion, and of course, the lineups.

The purpose of the lineup, you see—despite popular misconception about the identification of suspects by victims, a practice which was more helpful in theory than in actual usage—was simply to acquaint as many detectives as possible with the men who were doing evil in their city.

At his elbow, Bush said, “Chief, we’d like to question that man further.” “Go ahead,” the chief said.

None of the shoes in Bronckin’s apartment owned heels even faintly resembling the heel‐print cast the lab boys had. Ballistics reported that neither of the .45s in Bronckin’s possession could have fired any of the fatal bullets. The 92nd Precinct reported that neither Michael Reardon or David Foster had ever worked there.

And then, suddenly, the sky split open and the rain poured down. Huge drops, and they pelted the sidewalks and the gutters and the streets, and the asphalt and concrete sizzled when the first drops fell, and the citizens of the city smiled and watched the rain, watched the huge drops—God, how big the drops were!—splattering against the ground.

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

It rained for four minutes and thirty‐six seconds.

The lightning still flashed across the sky, and the thunder still growled in response, but there was no rain.

Nobody likes practical jokes. Even when God is playing them.

If I think of harm coming to him… Nothing will happen to him…no. Steve is strong, Steve is a good cop, Steve can take care of himself. But Reardon was a good cop, and Foster, and they’re dead now. How good can a cop be when he’s shot in the back with a .45? How good is any cop against a killer in ambush? No, don’t think these things.

There was time yet. He lay and looked at the ceiling, and then he suddenly desired a cigarette.

He was thinking about the cop he would kill later that night.

“Why cops?” Byrnes asked. “Why not? How can you figure what a screwball will do? Probably knocked off Reardon by accident, not even knowing he was a cop. Then saw all the publicity the thing got in the papers, figured it was a good idea, and purposely gunned for another cop.”

Roger Havilland was a bull. Even the other bulls called him a bull. A real bull. He was a “bull” as differentiated from a “bull,” which was a detective. Havilland was built like a bull, and he ate like a bull, and he screwed like a bull, and he even snorted like a bull. There were no two ways about it. He was a real bull.

He was also not a very nice guy.

Havilland had once been a gentle cop.

Not many prisoners liked Havilland. Not many cops liked him, either. It is even doubtful whether or not Havilland liked himself.

Carella said, “Hey!” “What?” “Don’t get killed out there.” “Up yours,” Havilland said again, and then he left.

The man dressed quietly and rapidly.

The .45 lay on his handkerchiefs, lethal and blue‐black. He pushed a fresh clip into the gun and then put the gun into his jacket pocket.

Steve Carella was relieved at 11:33 by a detective named Hal Willis.