Bad to the Bone (28 page)

So he filled his afternoons with long walks through the neighborhood. Through
his
neighborhood. He’d been born on the Lower East Side in 1935, in the middle of the depression. He’d known a time when drugs were nonexistent. When the loser in a fight would be allowed to rise and shake his opponent’s hand instead of being stomped into the concrete. In the 1950s, when he’d joined the cops, an adolescent with a knife was condemned as an incorrigible juvenile delinquent. Now the kids packed 9mm machine pistols with thirty-round clips. They feared nothing. Incarceration was a rite of passage and an early death part of the territory.

The prevailing mood was helplessness. The Lower East Side of Manhattan had always been poor and the currently predominant Latino population struggled to move up, just as the Italians, Jews and Poles had struggled in past decades. Only now there was the sense of events out of control. The reality of drugs, especially the lure of big money, had transformed an already violent neighborhood into a war zone. Divisions of heroin and crack junkies, faced with habits that cost hundreds of dollars a day to support, prowled the streets in search of money and dope. Undercover cops, looking exactly like the mutts they planned to arrest, pursued buy-and-bust operations that often resulted in shootouts as likely to injure the citizen as the criminal.

Moodrow walked past Hanover House a dozen times. He found it hard to imagine the life of the average Hanoverian. Despite the fact that his sense of Betty’s fate, if she was found out, was sharply defined. As was his sense of what he would do to Davis Craddock if Betty got hurt.

His own assessment of Betty’s danger was one of two factors that pushed him into contacting the NYPD. Maybe if the cops began an intensive investigation, she’d back off. Maybe. The second factor was the preliminary report from Toxilab, Inc. The poison in Flo Alamare’s body fluids had not been identified, but the techs were certain that the opiate detected at Bronx Municipal was not heroin. Or any other known drug. The hospital had concluded that Flo Alamare had been positive only for
traces
of heroin, but Toxilab’s preliminary opinion was that the unidentified opiate in Flo’s body was so powerful that the small amount detected at Bronx Municipal was more than enough to make her very, very stoned. In addition, the lab had discovered a compound that resembled the crystalline structure of methamphetamine.

“What you’ve got,” Doctor Murillo, the president of Toxilab, Inc., had explained, “is a pair of analogues. Think of it this way. Opium, morphine and heroin each have an identical central core that produces narcosis. This central core is surrounded by atoms that have no real part in the effect. It’s like a planet with a dozen moons. A chemist can take these moons and rearrange them. Or eliminate one. Or even add a moon. The planet isn’t changed very much. Which is why the nonspecific testing they did in the hospital came up positive.”

“Is it possible that this…What’d you call it? Analogue? Is it possible this analogue also poisoned Flo Alamare?”

Murillo had grinned. “Would you believe that I
love
mysteries. I read at least two a week. I even have a couple of writers who use me for research.”

“That’s funny,” Moodrow had responded. “Because, as a cop, I
hate
mysteries.”

“I can understand that. It’s not a hobby for you. But to answer your question, I’m a Ph.D., not an M.D., and I’m not terribly familiar with the testing that led the cardiologist to diagnose stroke. Nevertheless, proceeding as a detective and not as a scientist, I’d say that the number of puncture wounds in the patient’s arms precludes the possibility that the narcotic also poisoned her.
Unless
that narcotic was somehow altered. I’m sure you’ve noticed that all medications, even over-the-counter remedies, are stamped with an expiration date. The consumer thinks that an aspirin is an aspirin, but most compounds remain chemically active and lose their effectiveness over time. Fortunately, aspirins don’t become toxic. They simply stop relieving headaches.”

“I’m not following you. Are you saying that she
couldn’t
have been poisoned by the analogue?”

“Not really. All medications are subject to elaborate testing designed to eliminate the possibility that chemical changes will produce toxicity. If we assume that some amateur chemist with a lab in the woods has created a new drug, we must also assume that the new drug was not subjected to exhaustive testing. The drug Alamare used to get high may have been altered in a number of ways. Even something as innocuous as sunlight can change the atomic structure of a compound. Which is why so many medications come with a warning to keep them away from light. Heat can also cause sudden shifts in atomic structure. We haven’t been able to isolate any toxin in Alamare’s fluids, and we’ve tested for more than fifty poisons. My opinion, again as a detective, is that whatever poisoned Alamare, if she
was
poisoned, is as new as the compound that got her stoned. I also believe that the poison was created both accidentally and environmentally. In other words, it occurred in the natural course of day-to-day life. If I had a sample of the drug she used to get high, I could probably run down the poison in a few days.”

Moodrow had taken this conversation with him as he walked the streets of the Lower East Side. If he was still a cop, he would have gotten his sample, one way or the other, but the new drug Tilley had spoken to him about, the drug called PURE, was no longer on the street. The only potential samples were in the hands of the police.

In the end, he’d called Jim Tilley and Leonora Higgins, detailing the results of his investigation and asking for help. They’d gone back, Jim to the precinct and Leonora to the DA’s office, and presented the evidence to their superiors. Now they were meeting in Tilley’s apartment and the news was all bad.

“I spoke to Captain Ruiz,” Tilley began, “and I guess it’s to his credit that he listened to me all the way through. He wasn’t very enthusiastic, Stanley. As far as he’s concerned, the only pieces of your case that mean anything to the Seven are the dead junkies and dead junkies just don’t have priority. In the Seven or anywhere else. Even if they were poisoned, which hasn’t been proven, that doesn’t mean a homicide occurred. I…”

“Actually, it’s manslaughter,” Leonora Higgins interrupted. She was as carefully dressed as always, but the severity of her navy blue suit was softened by the two children perched on her knees. “Technically, a dealer who sells a controlled substance that results in a death can be prosecuted for manslaughter. Unfortunately, as far as I know, it’s never happened.”

“We’re not talking about a controlled substance,” Moodrow reminded her. “This drug, PURE, is completely new.”

“That doesn’t matter. It was sold or given to the victims with the full knowledge that it would be consumed. The result is a homicide. By the way, your dealer can’t be prosecuted for possession or sale of narcotics. Until PURE is chemically identified and added to the schedule of controlled substances, it can be sold quite openly.”

“When will that happen?” Rose Tilley’s question surprised everyone. She usually avoided discussions of police matters, but now she sat on the edge of her chair and her voice was insistent. “My children are prisoners in their own home. I take them to school in the morning and arrange to have them picked up in the afternoon. They never go out to play by themselves. That’s no way for kids to live, but there’s too much violence out there and the violence comes from drugs. Now you’re telling me there’s something worse than cocaine and it’s not even illegal.”

Moodrow laughed out loud. “They used to talk about heroin like it was the plague. Like it was the devil’s final assault on the human race. Then the cocaine began to flow and cocaine became the end of the world. Then some smart businessman figured out a way to make coke smokable and crack magnified everything a hundred times. Why should we kid ourselves? If those radar ships around Colombia manage to stop the cocaine, somebody’s gonna figure out a new way to feed the junkies. If you remember, about fifteen years ago we got the farmers in the golden triangle to switch over to alternative crops. Put a real dent in the amount of heroin on the streets. Then the Mexicans started growing poppies and heroin became more plentiful than ever. If you don’t want your kids to use drugs, then you’re gonna have to make them strong enough to resist, because the drugs aren’t going away. And if you want your kids to be safe on the street, you’re gonna have to let the junkies have their dope cheap. You’re gonna have to legalize it or give it away in clinics.”

“Then why are you so upset by Davis Craddock and PURE?” Betty couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

“I don’t know if I do care about some new drug. Except that people are out there getting poisoned. That puts a whole new light on it.”

“Wait a minute, Stanley,” Tilley corrected. “PURE is killing junkies, not people.”

Moodrow glared at his former partner. “It could be your kids, too. Nobody’s immune. Junkies turn into animals because that’s what it takes to maintain the habit. I don’t think addiction warrants the death penalty.”

Tilley started to answer, but Moodrow waved him off “We’re not gonna solve the drug problem this afternoon, Jim. Let’s get back to business.”

“Fine,” Tilley said. “The Captain sent your information on Williams’ death up to Bronx Homicide. They seemed interested, but who knows what they’ll do. The samples of PURE we picked up at the two homicides were sent to the DEA for analysis. There’s
zero
chance of getting any back.”

“Why didn’t you hold onto a piece of it?” Moodrow asked.

“I can answer that,” Leonora said. “PURE isn’t illegal. It would be like holding onto a comb.”

“That’s right,” Tilley said. “There wasn’t any point in keeping it. By the way, I’ve been working my snitches hard for the last few days. Trying to get you a sample from the street. The junkies went crazy for PURE. That was all they wanted. Then it disappeared as if it was never there. What I think is that the chemist who made it, Davis Craddock or whoever, took it off the market when he found out it was poisonous.”

“You think so, huh?” Moodrow straightened in his seat. “I’ve been walking through the neighborhood for the last few days, just looking around, and I saw an old friend of ours go into Hanover House. Wendell Bogard. He was still coming up when I left the job, but I hear he’s a high roller these days. It looks like Craddock’s getting ready to make some kind of a move and if we can get Captain Ruiz to set up twenty-four-hour surveillance, we’ll probably find Craddock’s lab in a week.”

“You may be right,” Tilley said, “but it’s not happening. The Captain thinks it’s a problem for the DEA, not us. You gotta remember that if PURE isn’t illegal, then the lab isn’t illegal.

“He’s right,” Leonora said. “He might be in violation of some federal statutes if he’s using certain chemicals called precursors, but it’s not a problem for local law enforcement.”

Suddenly, Lee, Rose’s oldest, slid off Leonora Higgins’ lap and stalked off to his room. “Drugs, drugs, drugs,” he complained. “That’s all I hear about at school. It’s boring.”

“That’s right. It’s boring.” Lee’s sibling and shadow, Jeanette, followed him dutifully.

Tilley watched them go for a moment, then turned back to Moodrow. “The thing about PURE that makes it really different is that the coke freaks want it as much as the heroin junkies.”

“I’m not surprised. The lab says there’s some kind of speed in it. The lab also claims the opiate in PURE is twenty or thirty times as powerful as heroin. Plus it sometimes kills people. And nobody wants to do anything about it.”

“That’s not completely true, Stanley,” Leonora said. “I’ve also spoken to the DEA and they say that if PURE comes back on the market, they’ll begin the process of adding it to the list of controlled substances.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Two years.”

The afternoon ended on the worst possible note. Moodrow, in a last, desperate attempt to keep Betty away from Davis Craddock, told Rose, Leonora and Jim about her visits to Hanover House and all three fell on her. What she was doing, they declared, was crazy. No good result could come of it. Hanoverians were
leaving
the commune. If they wanted her to keep coming for therapy, it was probably because they already knew who she was. Craddock was both murderous and unpredictable. Wendell Bogard, if he was now associated with Craddock, was suspected of a dozen homicides. Betty simply
had
to stay away. Betty’s face reddened as the assault grew in intensity, but she waited until they were finished before she got up and put on her jacket. Moodrow’s desperate ‘please, Betty,’ went entirely ignored. Betty didn’t say a word until the front door was open. Then she turned back and stared directly into Moodrow’s eyes. “You don’t own me, Stanley. Men have been trying to own me since I reached puberty, but I’ve somehow managed to live my life without chains. Do you really think that I’m about to let some
cop
put me in handcuffs?”

from
The Autobiography of Davis Craddock

F
OUR DAYS AGO, I
reread the last segment of my autobiography and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I sounded like a petulant child. A
whiner
.

God doesn’t like a whiner. He maketh calamities to rain upon a whiner’s head.

Besides, I do not wish to project self-pity. Self-pity is, in fact, the antithesis of the image I see in the mirror every morning.

I now view my previous writing as a moment of weakness. A moment of self-indulgence. The story of my life.

But I’ve taken the pledge. I’ve turned the leaf. No more self-indulgence. I’m a new man, now. Or an old man, resurrected. When I look in the mirror, I see cold calculation. I see determination.

Praise the Lord, and pass the chicken.

Marcy has gone to her reward in the sandy soil of a Long Island pine barren. She first hurt me when she allowed Flo to live. She hurt me a second time when she balked at the elimination of a ‘little’ problem.

It would have been sheer self-indulgence to keep her on simply because she was the best pussy I’ve ever had. On the other hand, squeezing her neck until her tongue popped like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker was mere problem-solving.