Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

"Then you have the element of intent," Murrow finished.

"Just right, Murrow: the element of intent. So- did they, in fact, know the man? If this was a normal investigation, we would get the cops to find out whether the two defendants had any contact with the victim, and what that relationship was. But since the defendants are cops, we can't, or we can't right now."

"Because of the… um?" Murrow gestured vaguely in the direction of the DA's office across the hall.

"Yes, because of the um. If I still had Clay Fulton here, it would be a different story, but they kicked him upstairs to Police Plaza, and if I went to that yo-yo who's running the DA squad now, the news of the request would be in Fuller's hands and up on the twelfth floor of One PP practically before I put the phone down. However, I have a plan."

"May one know it?"

"Not just now. Meanwhile"-here Karp looked at his watch-"you might wander by and see if the grand jury has taken up this case yet. It'll do you good to see corrupt practices taking place before your very eyes."

"Okay, but why don't I stand up and in a voice of doom cry out, 'Cooley! Cooley, you knew the victim! Cooley, you murderer!' Then if he turned white and fainted, we would know he was guilty."

"Good plan, Murrow. Let's use that as a fallback if mine doesn't work. Now, scram."

When Murrow was gone, Karp hit a speed-dial button. One of the secrets of the modern age is that every important person in the world has a private number, known only to a select few. Karp had one of these, and he knew a bunch of others, such as this one, mostly people in New York's criminal-justice and forensic establishments. Karp's mind did not often dwell on Judaica, but he liked the image of the Nine Just Men for whose sake Ha-Olam does not destroy the wicked world, and while he did not puff himself up so much as to consider himself personally one of these, he imagined that all of the Just would have each other's private numbers.

After a few rings, a throaty bass voice said, "Yeah, Fulton."

"Clay, it's Butch."

The voice turned softer, and they chatted about family, sports, the local scene. Fulton was one of Karp's oldest friends, one of the first black college graduates to serve in the NYPD and a mentor from Karp's earliest days at the DA. He had been head of the DA squad and had functioned almost as Karp's private police force until being promoted to inspector and kicked upstairs, where the bosses could keep a closer eye on him.

"They keeping you busy up there?" Karp asked.

"Oh, you know-it's paperwork mostly. They found out I could spell. Surprised the shit out of them, I think, me being a colored fellow and all. Strategic planning they call it."

"What's the strategic plan?"

"Frisk as many niggers as possible is the main one."

"Is it working?"

"Hey, crime rate's down. Of course, it's down just as much in cities where they don't do shit like that, but that don't cut much ice up here on the twelfth floor. How's by you?"

"Not that great, actually. I need to talk to you about stuff, but not over the phone. Lunch?"

"Sure, where at?"

"How about Lemongrass on Varick?"

Pause. "Isn't that a vegetarian place?"

"Uh-huh. It smells of carrots and no cop would be caught dead eating there. See you in a bit."

It did smell of carrots, and purity, and contained several elegant, slow-moving young waitpersons, who seemed by their expressions to be suffering directly from mankind's abuse of the planet. Lucy ate here all the time, which was how Karp had learned of the place. Both men had a meatless, cheeseless, taste-free dish of quasi-lasagna and filled up on the bread, which was surprisingly good.

"This better be worth a set of ribs at Jack's," grumbled Fulton when the waitress had tripped off. Fulton was a big, dark brown man in his late fifties with a brush mustache and a balding dome of a head. He had an elegant gray suit on, and silver cuff links with gold detective badges on them. His expression, disarmingly genial at most times, was now a little wary.

"You got it, a whole cow, if you want. Push that crap aside and take a look at this." Karp handed a manila folder across the table.

Fulton opened it, saw what it was, and shot a hard stare across the small table.

"What's going on, Butch?"

"That's what I need to know. Read the whole thing, especially including the autopsy. Take your time."

Fulton did so, reading silently, spreading the pictures out over almost the whole of the table, including those that were quite out of place in a vegetarian restaurant. When he was done, he shoved the papers and photographs back into the folder and handed it back to Karp.

"So?" Fulton said.

"So what do you think?"

"About what? This Lomax? He fought the law and the law won."

"Come on, Clay."

"Oh, don't you give me that 'Come on, Clay.' Let me ask you something-do you know Ray Cooley?"

"More or less. Not personally. He was borough chief of detectives. Retired a couple of years ago. What's he got to do with it?"

"I'll tell you what, Stretch. There is probably not a senior cop in this city in the last twenty-five years who was more respected than Ray Cooley. When the Mollen Commission shit hit the fan, they got Ray Cooley to clean out the Manhattan houses that were dirty because everybody knew he was clean as a whistle, and that he was a cop's cop and wouldn't sacrifice the little guys to protect the big ones. And he didn't. And he was decent, especially compared to the usual gang of Paddies they got running the department-I'm talking about racism here. Never a hint. Now, Ray had two sons, both of them cops. Brian, the oldest, got himself shot. He was working undercover out of the Twoeight, talking out there one night to a CI he had, over on Fourteenth east, and somebody drove by and popped a bunch of caps. They were trying to get the snitch, but they got Brian instead. He pushed the snitch down and tried to return fire, but they got him. The younger son, that's the fella you have in that file, got the Medal of Valor two years ago. You know what he did?"

"No, I don't, but-"

"Listen! A hostage situation. A guy holed up on the fifth floor, stoned out of his gourd, he's got his girlfriend and two little kids, and a pistol. The girlfriend's mother runs out of the place, calls the cops. These are black people, by the way. Brendan Cooley happens to be in the neighborhood. I think he was working the Three-oh then, before he went over to anticrime. So him and his partner answer the squeal. Okay, you know a hostage situation, you got your protocols, your regs. Call for the specialists, the negotiating team, the snipers, the helmets, the SWATs. Brendan goes in there, and he decides this guy isn't going to wait for that, he's going to pop in the next two minutes. So what does he do? He stands in the doorway, he throws down his weapon, he takes off the vest he put on, he even rips open his shirt, and he goes, 'Hey, you want to shoot someone, shoot me! Go ahead, shoot. But, for Christ's sake, let the woman and the kids go!' For some reason-I don't know, God was having a slow day, maybe He decides to tweak this fuck-head's brain the right way-and he goes with it. He lets the kids go, the girlfriend. By the time they roll up the heavy artillery, Brendan's got the guy's piece and they're sitting on the bed together, the guy's crying his eyes out on Brendan's T-shirt. What do you think of that?"

"Sounds like something of a cowboy, Brendan."

"That's what you derive from that story?"

"Yeah, speaking as a cowboy myself. How come they didn't ding him for not going by the book?"

"Oh, they chewed him, all right. But the press got ahold of it, and it was too much for them, especially given that the usual story is white cop blasts black guy. Here the white guy saved three, maybe four, uptown-type folks."