The Chinese Jars (13 page)

With one telephone call he found out that Officer Foley was on the swing shift, which gave him several hours to work before trying to see him. He made several phone calls, attempting to convince uninterested potential clients to sign up, but all he was able to sell was an insignificant mattress ad. At least this futile exercise in monotony assuaged his guilt and cleared his mind.

At four o'clock sharp he put on his sport coat and ran out. When he arrived at the new Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, he went directly to the police department and asked for Officer Foley, who turned out to be much younger than he thought. He looked like a pimply teenager. “I'm Samuel Hamilton. I saw your name on this police report,” he announced, handing him the sheet of paper he carried. “Do you remember the incident?”

The officer read it over and saw his name at the bottom. “Yes, sir, this is my report. Where are the other pages? I remember there being three; two in writing and a diagram.”

“That's all I have,” answered Samuel. “Can you take a look in the file and see if the rest of it's in there?”

Foley left the room for several minutes and returned shaking his head. “Not there. You'd better check with my supervisor. I turn over all my reports to him, and he signs off on them at the end. That's why his name's not on this page.”

“You do remember the incident?” asked Samuel.

“I remember it well. This was only my third accident. I knew it was above my head. I'm only a rookie and traffic was my first assignment. Let me think,” he said, scratching the pimples on his chin. “There were three guys, two Chinese and the white guy dressed in the tuxedo who got killed. The question was whether the Chinese guys pushed him into the path of the bus. I also seem to remember that the bus driver said one of the Chinese guys had something wrong with his face. He must have been really ugly for the driver to notice his looks at a time like that. My supervisor's job was to review the facts and turn the matter over to the right department. You'll have to ask him what he found out and what he did with the information,” said Foley.

“Who was your supervisor?” asked Samuel.

“Sergeant Maurice Sandovich,” answered Foley.

“Where can I find him?” asked Samuel.

“He's back on the Vice Squad now. They switched him to days,” answered Foley.

“What do you mean, he's back on the Vice Squad?”

“Not for me to say, you'll have to take that up with him. Sorry I can't do more for you,” he said, and waved Samuel off.

* * *

Samuel knew he wasn't going to get anything out of the police department by himself, so the next day he went to the U.S. attorney's office to ask for help.

Charles Perkins was feeling good about himself. He had gotten a spread in the newspaper that Samuel worked for as a result of being the lead attorney on the conviction of a group of drug smugglers from Central America. So when Samuel showed up at his office unannounced, Charles received him in good humor. His office was full of boxes concerning his recently completed case, and piles of stacked mail on his desk awaited his attention. He was seated in the swivel chair with his feet up on the desk.

“Hi, Charles. Busy as usual, I see,” said Samuel. He was looking right at the hole in the right sole of Charles's weathered-looking Florsheim black wingtips. The worn look of the shoes matched the dullness of the tired blue suit he was wearing. Those details awoke a certain sympathy in Samuel for his arrogant friend.

“You again. I haven't heard from you in a while. I thought maybe your case just went away,” he said with his usual air of superiority, balancing a cup of coffee in his right hand.

“Not quite,” said Samuel. “It gets more complicated all the time. Remember the one-page police report?”

“Yeah, that was a no-brainer,” said Charles. “It just told us what happened.”

“That's what I thought at the beginning, but I learned there are pages missing,” said Samuel.

“Is that right,” said Charles, taking his feet off the desk and sitting upright in his chair. “How did you find that out?”

“I talked to the trolley bus driver and the police officer who made out the report.”

“And?”

“The police officer was a rookie, and he turned his report over to his supervisor. But he remembered the accident, and when he went to look for the rest of the report, it wasn't in the file,” said Samuel.

“Who was his supervisor?” asked Charles.

“Maurice Sandovich.”

Charles jumped to his feet. Half of his coffee spilled on the papers on his desk. “You've got to be kidding!”

“I'm not kidding. Why would you say that?” asked Samuel.

“Maurice Sandovich is one of the crookedist cops I've investigated since I've been on this job. He's up to his neck in rackets connected with Chinatown. Tell me about the one-pager.”

“The driver told the cop that two Chinese guys might have pushed Rockwood into the path of the trolley bus,” Samuel explained.

“What did Sandovich have to do with all this?” asked Charles.

“He was supposed to approve the report and file it, but instead two-thirds disappeared.”

“Where's Sandovich now?” asked Charles.

“He's back on the Vice Squad.”

Charles cursed. “I can't believe they put that bastard back on Vice. I bet he weaseled his way onto the Chinatown beat again, and now he's back to work for the gangsters down there. Who would've approved that move?” Then he thought for a minute. Actually, that's beside the point. We still have to prove he was involved and that he did something wrong. But most of all, we have to figure out why,” said Charles.

“For the last couple of days I was thinking about coming to see you,” said Samuel, “and now I know why.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you always ask the right questions,” said Samuel.

“You came just at the right time. Before today I couldn't have done anything. Did you read the story about me in the paper this morning?” Charles crowed.

“Sure,” Samuel lied, knowing Charles would recount whatever had happened in more detail than the paper had told it anyway. He was correct. He spent the next half hour rehashing all the excitement of his trial victory, while Samuel was stealing glances at the clock on the wall.

“What do we do now?” asked Samuel when Charles finally stopped talking.

The lawyer came back down to earth and thought for a minute. “Believe it or not, we have to be careful not to step on local law enforcement's toes. You see, there's a delicate balance between the San Francisco P.D. and the federal government. We have to respect their territory. Otherwise, when we need something from them, it won't be available. I think the best thing to do is to go to the chief of police and explain to him what the problem is. Of course, if there's an innocent explanation for the disappearance, or if it turns out that the report was just misfiled, then Sandovich gets tipped off that we're watching him.”

“From the sound of it, it doesn't matter,” said Samuel.

“What d'ya mean?” asked Charles.

“If this guy's as bad as you say, then if he's not caught for this, it's bound to be for something else, so why not just take the shot. Besides, it's not your office that's investigating him. I stumbled on this by accident. If worse comes to worse, you can blame me.”

Charles laughed, brushing the lock of blond hair back from his forehead. “I like that approach. There's no doubt this guy is bad. I bet he's way more involved than we actually figure right now. But we have to be careful not to make him suspicious, because he can attack like a scorpion”

* * *

Charles made a few phone calls. A few days later, he and Samuel had a meeting with the assistant chief of police, Sandovich, and Officer Foley. Charles Perkins started the discussion. “Mr. Hamilton here has been looking into the death of Reginald Rockwood III. He was killed at the end of November when he was hit by a trolley bus, late at night, down by General Hospital. Officer Foley made a several-page report about the accident. His supervisor at that time was Sergeant Maurice Sandovich, the gentleman sitting over there. Foley turned his report in to the sergeant and that's the last he saw of it. When Mr. Hamilton interviewed Officer Foley, and Foley went to get the file, only the first page was there, which is the reason for this meeting.”

“Sergeant Sandovich, will you explain the procedure for Mr. Perkins?” asked the assistant chief.

“Yes, sir,” answered Sandovich. He was a big man. He had gray hair barbered in a crew cut. His puffy cheeks and blotchy complexion gave away his enjoyment of drink, but he had a steely look in his blue eyes that couldn't be ignored. He took in everything, forgot nothing, and was not happy being the object of the grilling that was taking place.

“Here's the way it works. The traffic officer, Mr. Foley, was under my supervision 'cause he was new to the beat. I don't particularly recall the accident, so I have to tell you what I generally did at that time. I would go over the report with the officer in charge of the scene and, if I found everything in order, I'd sign at the bottom of the second page or at the end of however many pages there were.” His head turned slowly around the room so he made sure he had made eye contact with everyone there.

“Wait a minute,” said Charles. “What if there was only one page?”

“That would only happen if someone called in and there was no officer at the scene. In that case, no supervisor would be involved,” said Sandovich. “In a major accident, there would always be at least two pages. You see; there would always be a diagram. If this was a big accident, you can count on there being at least two pages. After my review, I would decide if it needed further investigation and, if it did, I would turn it over to the appropriate internal department or I would file it.”

“It's not in the file, Sergeant,” said the assistant chief.

“Maybe I turned it over to one of the departments,” said Sandovich. “What was the nature of the injuries?”

Charles zeroed in. “The man died, and Foley says that the trolley bus driver, a Mr. Butler, told him that Rockwood was pushed in front of the bus by two Chinese guys, or at least held him there until the last second.”

“I don't remember the incident or the report,” said Sandovich. “But if it was a potential homicide, I probably turned the report over to them,” he said coolly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Homicide has no file on this case, and there's no record of anyone ever contacting them,” said the assistant chief, noticeably annoyed.

“I don't know what to tell you, Chief. I don't remember anything about this case; I was in charge of a lot of cases then,” said Sandovich, and he tilted his seat back with the attitude that he was starting to get bored.

Samuel had been watching the interchange, and he noted the cool way Sandovich handled everyone, sure they couldn't touch him. He treated everyone with equal disdain. It was apparent that he knew more than he was letting on, but he acted as though he always covered his tracks perfectly, and it would be difficult to catch him. That much impunity to violate the law by someone whose job it was to uphold it really frosted him.

“All right, gentlemen,” said the assistant chief. “Officer Foley, you take this one-page report over to Homicide and explain to them there is at least a page missing, and tell them what was on it as best you can remember.

“I assume you'll fill them in on whatever you know,” he said, looking at Samuel.

“Always glad to help,” said Samuel, controlling his anger. “Butler gave a sworn statement to the Municipal Railway investigators.”

The chief asked Sandovich to stay with him. And when all the others had gone, Samuel lingered near the door on the pretext of lighting a cigarette and he heard part of the conversation.

“I don't like this shit, Maurice. I pulled you off Vice and the Chinatown beat 'cause you were acting slimy. You got a reprieve and got your job back, but this sounds like the same old crap. You better get this straightened out and you better not be double-dealing, I warn you.”

“You got nothing to worry about, Chief, I'm clean,” he answered, giving him an intense stare. He got up and hurried out of the office.

* * *

Samuel and Charles took a cab to Stockton Street in Chinatown. The street was full of Chinese shoppers, and the occasional white bargain hunter, or the groups of tourists with cameras around their necks. The vegetable stands were crammed with mountains of fruits, brightly colored vegetables—including leeks, chard, and mushrooms of all kinds, to name just a few. The fish stalls put tanks of water on the street where fish and shellfish waited their turn. At a sign from a shopper, the fish merchant stuck in a net and took out what was requested. Giant lobsters, their pincers tied, struggled as if they knew what was in store for them. In the window of the butcher shops and restaurants hung Peking ducks and other delicacies waiting to be purchased for the evening meal or devoured at lunch. The smells of ginger, cilantro, and roasted fowl lingered in the air.

Samuel had convinced Charles to try the culinary art of Chop Suey Louie's, which he thought was the best, mostly because he didn't have anything to compare it to. They pushed their way through the crowd and entered the place, which at that hour was packed and noisier than usual because of the yelling of the crowd listening to the horse races on the radio. It was part of the place's attraction because most of the clientele bet with Louie on the outcome.

The owner warmly welcomed them and squeezed them in between other customers at the counter. Samuel ordered for them, and they were quickly served a variety of plates that Charles couldn't identify.

“I see what you mean. Sandovich is a lying son of a bitch. What are we going to do about it?” asked Samuel with his mouth full.