Murder in Greenwich Village (17 page)

29

THEY FOUND CATTY Fellows walking around near the High Street–Brooklyn Bridge station, holding a Styrofoam cup that jingled when he shook it. When Smithson said his name, Catty tried to run, but Smithson had a good grip on his arm.

“What you want?” Catty said. “I didn't do nothin'.”

“You found a body yesterday.”

“I already talked to the police.”

“We're police too,” Smithson said, showing his shield. “We have a few questions.”

“Shit.”

“Let's go somewhere and sit down,” Jane said.

“I'm not going to no station house.”

“All right. Let's stay here.” She didn't want to take him into a restaurant and she didn't want him sitting in a radio car. He was probably crawling with lice. “When did you find the body, Catty?”

“I don't wear no watch.”

“Was it morning? Afternoon?”

“I was gettin' hungry. It must've been, like, late afternoon. Time to eat something.”

“You see the guy who shot him?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Was he still alive when you saw him?”

“He was deader'n dead. I looked at him and I knew. And there was blood all around.”

“What were doing over there, Catty?” Smithson said. “That's not where you usually sleep.”

“I was . . .”

Smithson waited. Then, “You were what?”

“Takin' a walk.”

“That where you do your walking? Along the tracks?”

“Sometimes.”

“Catty,” Jane said, “we're just trying to find out when this murder happened and who did it.”

“
I
didn't do it.” His voice rose. “I'm no killer.”

“We know that. But maybe you saw a little more than you told us about.”

“I didn't see anything,” he said glumly.

“Maybe you saw two men walk by the place where you sleep.”

Catty said nothing.

“Maybe you heard a shot fired.”

“You can't hear a shot when a train goes by.”

“That's right. I forgot about that. If you wait for a train, you can shoot and no one would hear you.”

“You got it.”

“So maybe you saw a guy with a gun but you didn't hear anything except a train.”

“I didn't see it. I found the body later.”

“Detective Smithson and I just can't figure out why you walked over to the place where the body was. It's way down the tracks from the station where you and Rocky and Stanley hang out.”

They had talked about it on the way over. Catty had his favorite sleeping place, which they had seen, but the crime scene was farther down the line from the station where he and his pals congregated. What had motivated him to walk toward a station he wasn't known to use? Maybe he had seen something and kept it to himself. The cops who had interviewed him yesterday saw him merely as the person who reported finding a body, and they had little reason to think he was the killer, especially when they learned that an alarm was out for Charley Farrar. But the geography of the situation indicated a different scenario to Jane and Smithson.

“I told you,” Catty said impatiently, “I was takin' a walk.”

“You know what, Catty?” Jane said. “I think you saw a guy with a gun. I think maybe you saw him use it.”

“I didn't see him shoot. I didn't.”

“But you saw the man with the gun, didn't you?”

Catty thought about it. “Maybe I did.”

“There's no maybe. You saw him, right?”

“Yeah, I saw him.”

“OK. How 'bout you tell us exactly what you saw? Everything.”

“What if I tell you something a little different than what I told the other cops?”

“You weren't under oath, Catty,” Smithson said in a cajoling tone. “Maybe when you talked to them, you forgot to mention a few things.”

“Yeah. That could be.”

“From the beginning,” Jane said.

“Let's see. I'm resting in my usual spot, OK?”

“Fine.”

“ 'Cause I had, like, a bad night, you know?”

“OK,” Jane said.

“And the way I sit, they come from behind me so they don't see me but I see them go by.”

“I got it.”

“And there's two white guys, not young guys, older, and big.” He raised his right hand to indicate a six-footer. “And the guy in the back, he's holdin' a gun in the back of the other one.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Shit, it was dark down there. I don't check out their clothes, and I couldn't see them anyway. It was just pants and shirts, maybe one had a jacket.”

She had wondered if one was wearing a uniform. “What else do you remember?”

“The guy behind, he got one hand on the arm of the guy in front, like he's makin' sure he don't run away. And the other hand got the gun.”

“Did they say anything?”

“Nothin'.”

“They just walked by?”

“Yeah. I watched 'em go, but it's dark down there. I couldn't see much.”

“Did you hear the shot, Catty?”

“I don't know.”

“What does that mean?”

“A train come by. Then another. Maybe I heard something when the second one come by.”

“What did you hear?”

“Maybe like a bang.”

“I thought you said you couldn't hear a gunshot when a train was going by.”

“Yeah, I said that, didn't I?” He screwed up his face. “But I think maybe I heard a bang, even with the train.”

“So what did you do?”

“Nothin'!” He seemed shocked at the question. “I ain't goin' after no dude with a gun. You think I'm crazy?”

“I think you're very sane, Catty, and I want to hear your whole story, so keep going. What did you do after the train went by and you heard a bang?”

“I froze. I just sat there. I was scared.”

“Did you go to see what happened?”

“No, ma'am. I said to myself, ‘You get yourself outta here or you could be next.' He could be comin' back and he'd see me for sure. So I got up and I went back to my station.”

“Did you hang around to see if the man with the gun would come back?”

Catty smiled. “Yeah, I did. But he didn't show up. I waited a long while, maybe an hour, but no one came up outta the tracks. So I figured he just kept walkin' to the next station. See, then if somebody saw him comin' in at my station, they'd never see him again. They wouldn't see him once with the other guy and then once by himself.”

“Good thinking,” Smithson said. “You're a smart guy.”

“Yeah.” He said it with no pleasure. He knew the game Smithson was playing.

“So then what?” Jane asked.

“So then I went back down there to see what happened.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I just kept walkin' till I came to the body. I gotta tell you, it was pretty bad to look at. Half his head was blown away. There was lotsa blood.”

“Did you touch him?”

“Who, me?”

“You're the guy that found him,” Smithson said. “You move him at all? Put your hands in his pockets? Take something?”

“No, sir. I just looked at him and went back to my station.”

“Then what?” Jane said.

“I was pretty shook, you know. I had to rest awhile before I figured out what to do. After I rested, I knew it was my duty to report what I found. So I went to the token booth and said what I'd seen.”

“You hang around for the police or did they have to find you?” Smithson asked.

“I waited for them, Detective. I know my duty as a citizen.”

“Yeah, right.” Smithson looked at Jane.

“OK, Catty. Thanks for your help.”

As they started to leave, Smithson turned back. “Where'd you get the name Catty?”

Catty gave them a smile, reached into his shirt, and pulled out a small gray kitten. “I just love cats,” he said. “That OK with you?”

Smithson didn't answer.

30

“SO FELLOWS SAW them walk by,” McElroy said. “Two men he can't identify.”

“Or won't,” Jane said.

“Same difference. But what he said makes sense. If he'd been facing them as they approached, they would have seen him. This way, they just appeared and kept going and all he saw was their backs. After the shooting, the killer kept walking to the next station, went up on the platform and out to the street, just another anonymous straphanger.”

“And if he's smart,” Smithson said, “he got rid of the gun last night. Not that it matters. He's gone.”

“What do we know about him?” McElroy asked.

“Catty Fellows said both men were white, older, or at least not young,” Jane said. “That's no surprise. Micah Anthony was murdered ten years ago. This guy probably wasn't a rookie at the time. Look, I've got two ideas.”

“Let me hear them.” It sounded as though McElroy had none of his own.

“When I went up to Sing-Sing, I didn't ask Curtis Morgan's brother if he knew what rank the Transit cop was.”

“Good thought. We could get a list of names from the year Anthony was killed.”

“And I could call Anthony's wife and ask if they knew a Transit cop. It's possible a friend set him up.”

“Wouldn't be the first time.” McElroy looked at his watch. “OK. Go to it.”

They stopped for coffee on the way back. The pot was full and it smelled good.

Sitting down at his desk, Smithson said, “Am I missing something or is McElroy as out of ideas as we are?”

“McElroy's not an idea man. But he recognizes good ones when he hears them.”

“Graves has the brains.”

“And the sweetness and charm,” MacHovec chimed in. “Not always for us.”

“Warren,” Jane said, “how 'bout we split up the Fives?”

“I'll do them. I took the notes.”

Jane dialed Mrs. Appleby's number to the uneven tune of the typewriter. Her machine picked up and Jane left a message. Then she called Sing-Sing and made an appointment to talk to Timothy Morgan at five o'clock that evening. She stressed that Morgan had to be in a private setting. No one was to know he was cooperating with the police.

When she hung up, Mrs. Appleby called. “Are you making any progress?” she asked.

“Quite a bit. We've had some lucky breaks.”

“Your partner, Detective Defino. I heard about him on the news. Is that connected with my husband's case?”

“It is.”

“I'm so sorry. How is he?”

“He's doing fine. He's very anxious to come back, but they won't let him for a while.”

“So you've shaken things up.”

“We have.”

“That sounds good to me, especially after so many years. What can I do for you?”

“I have some questions, and I'd like to ask that you keep them strictly to yourself.”

“I understand.”

“Did your husband have any friends among the Transit cops?”

“Yes, he did, someone he went to high school with. We didn't see them often, maybe once a year, but Micah always talked fondly of him.”

Jane grabbed her pencil. “What's his name, Mrs. Appleby?”

“John Beasely. His wife's name is Cynthia.”

“Are you still friendly with them?”

A breath found its way across the distance. “I haven't heard from them for a couple of years. A few. Widows don't get the same social consideration that married women do.”

“I understand. When was the last time you saw them, or him?”

“Probably five years ago. They took me to dinner. I invited them out to the house after that, but they couldn't make it. I tried a few times and then I gave up.”

“Do you recall what rank he was when you last saw him?”

“I think he had just passed the lieutenant's exam but he hadn't been promoted yet.”

“What was his rank when your husband died?”

“I think he was a sergeant. He was a smart fellow—both of them were—and he took the sergeant's exam as soon as he could. I seem to remember he passed it the first time.”

“Did he and your husband go on the job about the same time?”

“Micah joined just after he graduated from John Jay College. I don't think John was ready then. He went to City and then took some time off. He probably lost a year, so he would have gone to the Academy about a year or so later. May I ask why you're interested in him?”

“I can't answer that. I'm sorry. How did he react when your husband died?”

This time there was a distinct pause. “Detective Bauer, John Beasely may have stopped calling me, but he wasn't involved in Micah's death.” Her voice was strained, the impact of the questions having hit their mark.

“I have to ask.”

“Yes. Yes, I know you do. And I will answer because I have no choice and because you and Detective Defino have obviously made more progress than ten years of other detectives' work. And Detective Defino almost gave his life for this investigation. You wanted to know how John reacted when Micah died. He heard about Micah while he was at work and he found me at the hospital where they had taken me. He had thrown a coat over his jeans but he had no shirt on over his T-shirt. He was in tears. He hugged me and we cried together.” She sounded near tears herself. “That's how he reacted. He was my husband's friend, one of the oldest friends Micah had.”

“Thank you. I have another question.”

“Go on.”

“You told us last week that you thought your husband would get into a car with someone he trusted.”

“Yes. I still think so.”

“If it was someone in uniform, or someone who had a shield, even if he didn't know the person, do you think he would get into that car?”

“That's very difficult to answer. Since he started working that case, he was always on guard. He didn't want me answering the phone. I remember that. He was talking about putting in a second line, unlisted, just so his parents and a few close friends could call us. He became preoccupied with security, especially since I was visibly pregnant. Would he get into a car with a stranger who had the right ID?” The silence that followed the echoed question answered it. She couldn't be sure. “I don't know, Detective Bauer. Would I have gone with an unknown cop who showed up at my door with a badge and told me he had to take me to safety? Maybe I would. But Micah . . . I don't know. You think someone in the car that picked him up showed him a shield?”

“I think many things are possible,” Jane said.

“He'd be alive if he hadn't gotten into that car.”

“He may not have had a choice, Mrs. Appleby. There may have been several men with guns. We just don't know yet.”

“But you're coming closer. Your partner—”

“Yes, we're closer, just not close enough.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Not today. I'm sorry I disrupted your afternoon.”

“Just get them. I'm not made of steel but I won't collapse. I want those people in custody.”

“We'll do our best.”

MacHovec's hand was reaching across to her desk for the sheet on which she had written the name. “You got something.”

“Anthony had a childhood friend who became a Transit cop a little after Anthony came on the job.”

“Beasely. Let's see where it takes us.”

He went to work at the computer, making small sounds as he flipped from screen to screen. At least this man's work history hadn't been expunged. When he finally began to print it all out, Jane realized the typewriter had grown quiet. Either Smithson had finished the Fives or he had sensed a possible lead and was waiting to leap at it.

“Looks like a good career,” MacHovec said. “There may be issues in the personnel file, but from what I see here, he's OK.” Personnel files were off-limits to them. McElroy or Graves could access them with the OK of the chief of personnel via a request from the chief of D's office if they became necessary. He handed Jane some papers and started printing another set. “What I'll do now is cross-reference this with Charley Farrar, see if they overlap anywhere. It won't be obvious. One's a cop; one's a maintenance man. Maybe Beasely made a collar at a station where Farrar was working. Kinda thin, but what else do we have?”

“Not much,” Jane said. “They belong to different unions, different organizations.”

“And these guys wouldn't socialize. A black cop and a white track man.”

“Sean, maybe Farrar had a brother or cousin who was a cop.”

“I'll look into it later.” He tossed a second set of the printout on Jane's desk for Smithson and started one going for himself.

Jane turned to Smithson. “Let's look at the year before Micah Anthony was murdered. Think guns. Think armory. He ever cross paths with Carl Randolph or Sal Manelli or Curtis Morgan?” She found the page she had directed him to and started reading.