Five

It was midmorning before Mulheisen was alerted to the abscondence of Hal Good. A great hullabaloo ensued, and the unfortunate brunt of it was borne by Officer Lovabella. He it was who had allowed Hal Good to take the position of Henry J. Fogarty, structural-steel salesman from Youngstown, Ohio. The clamor was for Jellybelly to be severely disciplined, if not dismissed from the force.

Mulheisen took a different view. Although it did not come up in the foofaraw following the discovery of Fogarty in the holding pen, Mulheisen could not ignore the fact that he himself had looked in on Fogarty's inert form and when told that it was Good, had not raised any questions. Worse, just moments earlier he had read the interrogation report, which had not suggested that the subject was in any way inebriated and certainly not practically comatose. At any rate, Mulheisen's curiosity ought to have been piqued at seeing Good still present at 3:00 A.M. But he'd had Lande—and Bonny—on his mind. Mercifully, Lovabella did not reveal Mulheisen's appearance in the booking room. Therefore, Mulheisen defended Jellybelly by charging that Noell had mishandled Lande. (He did not find it necessary, of course, to mention that Jellybelly had forgotten Lande's whereabouts for several hours.)

Since when, Mulheisen demanded, does a detective bring in a suspect and then not follow through on the investigation, or having found no cause to detain the suspect/witness, fail to discharge that person from custody? Both Lande and Good, he pointed out, had been the responsibility of Dennis Noell, who had seen fit to pick them up in the vicinity of the Sedlacek murder scene, and yet Detective Noell had not followed through with the investigation. The report of Officer Doug Joseph (one of Noell's crew) on Lande was slipshod and incomplete, and of course there had been no questioning whatever of Good, whose subsequent behavior seemed to indicate that he might be a very important actor, indeed, in the Sedlacek scenario. This, Mulheisen declared, is what comes of elevating cruising squads to detective status.

Mulheisen's complaint did not play as well as he had hoped. The precinct commander of the Ninth, Buck Buchanan, an unctuous dandy, was a sworn life's enemy of Mulheisen's. He believed, correctly, that Mulheisen despised him, that he ridiculed him, that he was insubordinate, and that he had usurped the affection and the loyalty of the men of the Ninth. It particularly bothered him that Mulheisen had successfully avoided taking the lieutenants’ exam for several years now. Buchanan believed that Mulheisen had been able to do this, and to take other irregular actions, because he had political influence at a very high level, through his long-deceased father. Mulheisen, Sr., had been the water commissioner for some thirty years, not an influential post, but he had been well regarded in the Democratic party and by the United Auto Workers, so maybe he'd had some political punch. None of it had devolved upon his son, however, but Buchanan did not believe that. It was Buchanan's further erroneous belief that the reason Mulheisen did not take the lieutenants’ exam was he would flunk it. In fact, Mulheisen avoided the exam because he knew it would inevitably advance him into an administrative position, whereas he much preferred to be a working detective. Also, he didn't need the money. This kind of reasoning would never penetrate the seal-like head of Buchanan.

But now it appeared that Buchanan might have a chance to force Mulheisen to take the exam, which if he failed would ultimately get him out of the force and if he passed would at least get him out of the Ninth. Buchanan sent a memo to the district inspector of eastern detectives, noting that Mulheisen was officially the detective in charge of the botched Sedlacek investigation, regardless of the performance of his subordinates and fellow detectives. The investigation was his responsibility, not theirs, Buchanan insisted. The district inspector of eastern detectives could hardly ignore this memo, although he personally believed that Mulheisen ought to be allowed to do just about whatever he pleased. He didn't feel compelled, however, to act rapidly on the matter. In due time it would be passed along to the deputy chief of detectives, also an admirer of Mulheisen's. Some day it might even reach the office of the chief—whoever that might be (the present chief was under indictment). Maybe when the deputy was promoted, he might take the file along. Maybe not.

There was unpleasantness also with the honcho of the Big Four. Normally Dennis Noell and Mulheisen got along, mainly by avoiding each other. But now Noell jumped into the fray with both feet (or was pushed by Buchanan). He claimed to have had nothing to do with the mix-up. Oh, sure, he'd picked up both Lande and Good, but he had promptly turned them over to the doorman, to be held for Mulheisen and his crew. In fact, he had tried to get Mulheisen to interview one of the witnesses at the scene, but Mulheisen couldn't be bothered. (“Which one?” Mulheisen asked; Noell wasn't sure. “Where were these men picked up?” Mulheisen inquired; there was no indication, and no one could sort it out.)

Stanos, the Big Four driver and ex-mate of Jimmy Marshall, told Jimmy that they had picked up “half a dozen” guys that night in the space of an hour, one of them actually, if barely, on the street where Sedlacek had been gunned down. “Dennis was just snatchin’ ‘em right and left,” Stanos said with a grin. “He calls it the Bubba Smith method—you grab everybody in the backfield and sort ‘em out later.” Like the rest of the crew he couldn't say who was picked up where, but if push came to shove, he wouldn't say anything to hurt Dennis. He was tired of driving the cruiser and wearing blue (they had to have a blue driver because one whole Big Four crew had been gunned down, though not killed, when they stormed a dope den, and the defendants in the court case had walked by claiming they had no idea who these big bruisers were, in civilian clothes, attacking them with ax handles and shotguns—they had shot in self-defense). Stanos wanted an ax handle, or maybe even the tommy gun.

Finally Mulheisen countered that he had never had an opportunity to see Good, and Lande had similarly been misplaced. Noell should have seen to it that a detective—some detective, even one of his own—had interviewed this most suspicious of witnesses. But beyond that he managed to smooth the ruffled feathers by noting that the real culprit was the outmoded system of identifying and holding and dispersing witnesses and suspects. Most metropolitan police forces were adopting a bracelet system, he noted, similar to that used in hospitals (to identify babies and surgical patients and to prevent the dispensing of medication to the wrong person). The bracelet system would prevent prisoners from impersonating one another.

Mercifully all the squabbling soon began to die down. There was more than enough work for every detective in the city. Buchanan's complaint was still at division level. And Jellybelly, after a few days’ vacation with pay, was back on the night door at the Ninth.

After a week the case was deader than Sid. They had not found the killer's gun, or even his gloves. Some lucky teenager had found the attaché case. He'd thrown away the foam so he could use the case to carry his schoolbooks. Maki cleared the driver of the car that had almost hit Sid. The medical examiner had nothing interesting to say, except that Big Sid was aptly named, in a genital sense. Frank Zeppanuk, from the Scientific Bureau, offered the marginally enlightening information that powder residues indicated that the gunman had not used standard loads, which suggested what they already believed: the hitter was a pro.

But, of course, they had the unrecovered personal property of Hal Good. A wallet containing a driver's license, two credit cards, and $179 in currency. Also a nice necktie, which carried a label from Cool Noose, a Chicago shop. In addition, Jensen and Field discovered an interesting vehicle parked in a lot within two blocks of Sedlacek's house. When they contacted the rental agency, they learned it had been rented at Metropolitan Airport on Saturday, the day before the killing. The renter: Harold B. Good. Mr. Good had presented a credit card from Chase Visa but had insisted on paying cash, making a hundred-dollar deposit, which had not been claimed.

Mulheisen examined the driver's license thoughtfully. It said Good lived in Iowa City, Iowa, on Governor Street. He was thirty years old, and the photograph was that of a pleasant-looking young man who wore photo-gray eyeglasses and had sandy hair. The license was due for renewal in four months. The credit cards were from two banks, First Chicago and Chase, in Wilmington, Delaware. They were issued to Harold B. Good, with a box number in Iowa City.

“This looks too easy,” Mulheisen told Jimmy Marshall. He was on hold, on a call to the Iowa City police. He was soon proved right. The Iowa City police reported that they had nothing on Harold B. Good, except that he had died more than three years earlier. Mr. Good had committed suicide by ingesting numerous sedatives, presumably because he had begun to experience full-blown symptoms of AIDS. He had died intestate, no known relatives, and the police had not investigated further.

This information did not depress Mulheisen. On the contrary, he now felt that he had a real lead. He turned over the Chicago credit card and dialed the 800 number on the back, then asked to be connected to the Fraud Division. A pleasant-sounding woman was very interested to hear about Mulheisen's find. She quickly punched up Good's account on her terminal and was able to relay the following: Harold B. Good had a twenty-five-hundred-dollar credit line; he was fully current; he had changed his billing address some three years ago from the Governor Street address to a post-office box. Charges were infrequent but, curiously enough, all were made at businesses in the Detroit area—car-rental agencies.

The case officer at First Chicago was eager to cooperate. She said Harold Good's employer was listed as Quaker Oats, in nearby Cedar Rapids. She put Mulheisen on hold while she dialed Good's listed home phone number—it was no longer in service. She promised to fax all relevant material to Mulheisen immediately and to put an alert on all future uses of the card, with the notation that the user was not to be stopped or alarmed in any way but that the company should be notified instantly. This was just in case the current user had access to a duplicate card, although the case officer agreed with Mulheisen that it was unlikely to be used again. “Still, you never know,” she said hopefully. “Sometimes these people aren't brain surgeons, and, then, people do occasionally get into a bind, an emergency, where they just have to use the card. We'll keep a special eye on it.”

The fraud officer at Chase Visa wasn't so cooperative. He insisted on an investigative subpoena before relinquishing any information. “We've been burned on these before, Sergeant Mullhouse,” he said. “An absolute career con man out of Jersey nailed us in court for violation of privacy. So, company rule—gotta have a subpoena.”

That same afternoon Mulheisen faxed him the subpoena, signed by a judge who didn't even read the request. By the following day Chase's response was back: Harold B. Good had a two-thousand-dollar credit line; he was up-to-date on all payments and fees; he had used the account only five times in the past two years—to rent automobiles in Chicago; Los Angeles; Omaha; Fort Smith, Arkansas; and Dallas. The billing address was the same post-office box as for First Chicago, as was the employer's name and the home phone number.

The postal inspector's office in Iowa City reported that a Harold B. Good had rented the box and paid the rent regularly. Apparently he picked up his credit card statements promptly; no mail was in the box at present.

Mulheisen agreed with Jimmy that Good was the man they wanted. “Nobody goes to this much trouble to conceal his identity unless he's a professional criminal. He probably lives in or around Iowa City, but obviously he travels. What's in Fort Smith, I wonder? Any word on the prints?”

There had been a few smudged fingerprints on the cards in the wallet and in the rental car. Jimmy had sent them to the FBI, but the only response had been “will try further processes.” Jimmy said he'd heard that the FBI was experimenting with a new computer-simulated system, in which they took the prime characteristics of the partial prints and tried to create a more complete version. Nobody knew if it really worked, but it was worth a try.

They checked the airlines for an arrival of Harold B. Good on the Saturday preceding the killing. No luck. Nothing for the preceding days, either. Mulheisen decided that Hal, as he had begun to call him, must have traveled under some other name. Perhaps he had paid cash. One thing they did learn, however: Henry J. Fogarty had presumably flown to Chicago early Monday morning—quite a trick, inasmuch as he was sleeping it off in the Ninth Precinct's holding pen.

There was the name of a motel on the sparsely filled in preliminary-interrogation form: the Windswept, on Eight Mile Road. Mulheisen and Jimmy drove out there. By now they had an eight-by-ten blowup of Hal's driver's license photo. The register at the Windswept indicated that a Harold Good had stayed there Saturday night, but he had checked out Sunday morning, and the room had been cleaned. The clerk said the picture vaguely resembled Hal, except that he didn't wear glasses and maybe his hair was a little darker. Hal was friendly, she said, even a little flirtatious—which seemed reasonable, given that the clerk was quite attractive. In response to Mulheisen's suggestion, she adamantly rejected any notion that Hal might be gay. They looked at the room but could find nothing, nonetheless Mulheisen called in the Scientific Bureau to do a full-scale sweep. That turned up a couple more smudged prints, possibly Hal's, on the flush lever of the toilet. They were sent on to the FBI, which still hadn't come up with anything.

And that was that.

Andy Deane, of Racket-Conspiracy, had big ears on the street. Those ears’ tongues said that Big Sid had been popped by a heavy hitter from the West. The tale was that Sid had been skimming the numbers and the flesh forever, presumably without complaint from his masters, but lately he'd gotten into entirely new venues—not content to razor off the fat, he was now (or had been) hacking off whole steaks. The commodities specifically were coke and crack, said the tongues, which commodities Carmine had expressly forbidden to his minions. Further, Big Sid had been making fluttering noises, like a bird expecting to migrate, most likely to some warmer climate, where the business didn't have a branch office.

“Do you believe this dreck?” Mulheisen asked Andy.

Deane, a large man with red hair, a freckle on every centimeter of his body, and doll-like blue eyes, laughed. “It's one of those accepted fictions, Mul. A few years back Carmine was supposed to have promised his dear old mom, or maybe it was his new dolly, or maybe it was his beloved daughter, Ann-Mary, who'd had a brush with the law for possession of grass, that the business was gonna get out of the dope business. That's the line. For generations Carmine and his pals controlled heroin, grass, meth, coke, . . . but this new stuff, especially crack, was evil. Carmine wasn't having it. He said. And, in a sense, it's true. Those aren't mob boys standing on the street corner waving baggies of coke and touting cat's-eyes crystals. The business is ostensibly run by the Colombians and the kids. But Carmine has got his wienie in there, too, no doubt about it. It just isn't so visible.”

“And how did Sid fit into this?” Mulheisen asked.

“Carmine warned all these second-echelon goons off,” Andy said, “whether out of piety or to make his piece bigger, especially including Sid.” According to Andy, Sedlacek had got into trouble with Carmine years earlier for trimming too close to the bone. Bones, in fact, were broken. Sid had almost eaten the Colt then, Andy said, and it had taken him a long time and a lot of hard, unpleasant labor to work himself back into a position of uneasy trust—loan-sharking, auto parts, and jukebox marketing, not cushy work.

“I guess he didn't learn,” Mulheisen said.

“These guys aren't good students,” Deane agreed. “It must have been humiliating for him. But he made it back, . . . and as soon as he did, it looks like he started trimming again. But this time he must have taken some big slabs.”

“How big?”

“Five mil? Ten? Those are the figures I hear.”

“So where is it?” Mul wondered.

“That's the question,” Andy said. “It's still out there, they say. Carmine's still on the prod. They say. It's probably all bullshit.”

None of this was any concern of Mulheisen's. This was Andy Deane's beat. Mulheisen was just as happy to think Sedlacek's murder was a hit. Hal would not be easy to find, but he would no doubt turn up again, down the road. As his old mentor, Grootka, used to say, “The world is round.” Being a hit, an internal matter, so to speak, the pressure was off. The press wasn't concerned, especially, when the business bopped its own. There was a lot more pressure when bystanders or honest Johns got knocked. The Sedlacek case was not looking like a boost for anyone's career.

* * *

About a week after these events, there came a message for Mulheisen at the precinct from Mrs. Lande. He sat and looked at the note with misgivings for some time, then reluctantly called the number.

Bonny was pleased to hear from him. “You were so nice, Mul,” she said, “that Gene and I both thought we just had to thank you. We want you to come to dinner.”

Mulheisen was caught off guard, but he quickly begged off. He thanked her but claimed it wasn't ethical to engage in social contacts with a witness in an ongoing investigation. Bonny was immediately apologetic and sounded embarrassed. She wouldn't have him think for a moment that there was anything irregular about the invitation. But they did want to thank him. If he couldn't come, well, . . . she was sorry.

The following day Lande himself called. He just wanted to assure Mulheisen, he said, that there was nothing “funny” about the invitation. “Just a friendly, you know, kind of thing,” he said. “Hey, no offense, buddy. But it'd be a great favor to Bonny, you know. Bonny don't have no real friends around here, and I guess you guys used to go to school together and all. I mean, I thought you figured out that I didn't have nothing to do with that Sedlacek shit, anyways. Right? I mean, nobody could say nothing about having dinner for Chrisake, could they? It'd be a great thing for Bonny.”

He went on and on in that vein until Mulheisen began to feel like a jerk for denying his old school friend a chance to be properly grateful. But what did it was when Lande finally said sourly, “Bonny told me you wouldn't come. I guess your old man was the water Commish, or something . . . not on our level.”

Mulheisen couldn't bear for Bonny to believe he was snubbing her and her husband. He agreed to meet them on neutral grounds, so to speak, at a restaurant in St. Clair Shores, and he insisted on paying for his own dinner. He claimed it was departmental policy. That was agreeable.