Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

“You’ll stick around?” he said, frowning slightly.

“Yes, Mike.”

Murphy smiled at him and patted his shoulder gently. “It’s a great story. ‘Cop Nabs Brother’s Slayer.’ The copy desks can ring some beautiful changes on that one.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that’s the way it was,” Carmody said.

“Yes, that would be pretty,” Murphy said with a little sigh. “Well, I’ll see you later, Mike.”

“You’ll get the whole story, George. That was the deal.”

“Sure, I’m not worried. Take it easy, pal.”

“I’ll see you as soon as I can,” Carmody said to Karen. “You’ll be here?” Even in his confusion he realized he was pressing the point with absurd insistence.

“Yes, Mike.”

Wilson’s office, in comparison to the record room, seemed like a haven of peace. Myerdahl and Powell were talking together at the window, and Wilson was seated at his desk. When Carmody came in Wilson jumped to his feet, grinning with pleasure and excitement, and led him to a chair. “It was a fine night’s work, Mike,” he said. “The best we’ve had since I’ve been in the department. How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty good, I guess.”

Powell sauntered over and patted Carmody’s shoulder. “I’ll say amen to Jimmy’s comment,” he said. “It was a great night’s work. We’ve got your brother’s killer and Ackerman is dead. The organization is in for a terrific thump.”

“How about Beaumonte?”

“He caught a plane for Miami a few hours ago. But Langley has already confessed that Beaumonte hired him to do the job on your brother. So we’ll bring Mr. Beaumonte back on a murder charge. We still haven’t found the pictures Dobbs was using to blackmail Ackerman, but they’ve already served their purpose. They made him stampede.”

Carmody fumbled for a cigarette and discovered he had none. Powell brought out his case quickly. “Have one of these?”

“Thanks.” Carmody blew a stream of smoke at the floor and rubbed his forehead. He could feel fatigue settling on him with a ponderous pressure. “I wonder how Ackerman knew I was going to get Langley?” Wilson said, “Hymie Schmidt answered that for us. Beaumonte tipped off Ackerman you were going out there.”

Carmody sighed wearily. “He used me as his executioner. I was still on the payroll.”

The mood in the room changed slightly. Powell looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to get up to my office. We’ll be working all night, as it is.”

Myerdahl took the short black pipe from his mouth and said bluntly, “I don’t take back my words this afternoon, Carmody. But I say this now. You were all cop tonight.”

Carmody smiled faintly. “Thanks, Superintendent.”

When they had gone Wilson sat on the edge of his desk and drew a long breath. He studied Carmody for a few seconds in silence. Then he said lightly, “The peace and quiet is kind of a relief, isn’t it?”

“Peace?” Carmody said, smiling crookedly. “Where is it, Jim?” He sat slumped in the chair, head bowed, staring at the cracks in the floor. The overhead light gleamed on his thick blond hair, on the hard flat planes of his face, on the white sling stretching diagonally across his bare chest. Sighing, he shook his head slowly. “I was wrong, Jim,” he said. Karen had told him to say that, he remembered. And had warned him that the words might choke. But nothing like that happened. It was a relief to say the words. It was like putting down an intolerable burden. “Yes, I was wrong,” he murmured. What came next? You asked for forgiveness, that was it. He’d done that, he recalled, he’d asked Myers to forgive him. But it didn’t seem enough. He hadn’t changed; no bells of hope pealed in his soul, no promise of salvation blazed before his eyes. Maybe what Father Ahearn had suggested fitted in here. Come back little by little. The way he’d gone away.

“What will happen to me, Jim?” he said quietly. He was curious about that in an impersonal manner; it didn’t really matter because the big thing had already happened. He knew he was ruined. The mainspring that was the core of his strength had been smashed. Goodness had destroyed him. And that was almost comical. Mike Carmody had been hunted down, surrounded and destroyed. Cops like Myers and Wilson, women like Nancy and Karen, even big fat George Murphy had been in on the kill. He had thought they were fools, pushovers, weaklings — looking at them but seeing himself — and they had calmly smashed him to bits with their decency and goodness. Everything he believed had been proven invalid. So what was left of Mike Carmody?

Wilson came over beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Damn it, we all make mistakes,” he said, hunting awkwardly for words. “Don’t let this thing beat you all the way down, Mike. What will happen to you is anybody’s guess. The papers will play you up as the fearless cop who avenged his brother’s murder. When the rest of it comes out, that you were on Ackerman’s team, well they may switch around and make you out the biggest bum in the city. Powell is on your side though, and so is Myerdahl, if he’ll ever admit it.” Wilson frowned and then rubbed a hand over his face. “The best thing you can hope for is that they’ll let you resign without pressing charges.”

So I’m through as a cop, Carmody thought, still staring at the floor. That had been important once, but now it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered really. He felt as if his body and soul were vacuums, drained and empty, without even a promise of hope to sustain them.

“What’s the worst I can expect?” he asked.

Wilson shrugged. Reluctantly he said, “Three, four years, maybe.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, but you’ll have to stick around. Powell wants me to take a statement from you tonight on your connection with Beaumonte and Ackerman.”

“That fast?”

“We’ve got to do it fast. Before the organization can grow another head.”

“Okay. Can I go outside and say good-by to a friend?”

“Sure, of course.”

The record room had returned to its normal state of quiet efficiency; the reporters had gone up with Powell to work on the story of Ackerman’s death and the patrolmen had been detailed back to their squads and wagons. Abrams was at his desk, studying a file, and the clerk was typing out a report, occasionally pausing to stare through the dirty windows at the dark city. The bright overhead light was merciless on the battered furniture, the cigarette-littered floor, the curling flyers tacked on the bulletin board. It was a room that had been part of Carmody’s life for years, but after tonight that would be all over.

Karen sat alone on the wooden bench at the wall, striking an incongruously elegant note against the drab and dusty office. She was wearing a black suit, high-heeled pumps, and her hair was brushed back from her small serious face. Good people, he thought. That had occurred to him before, but grudgingly and suspiciously. Now it was a simple unqualified tribute.

She rose lightly to her feet as he crossed the room.

“Let’s sit down,” he said. He felt clumsy and constrained with her, hopelessly at a loss for words. “I’ve just got a few minutes,” he said at last. “There’s a lot of routine to get out of the way, you know.”

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’ll get a cab.”

“Where will you go?”

“Well, I haven’t thought about it. Some hotel, probably.”

The room was silent except for the occasional rattle of the clerk’s typewriter.

“You told me to say I was wrong,” he said, dragging the words out with an effort. “I did that. I wanted you to know.”

She looked at him gravely. “Did it hurt?”