Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

Siderman missed lunch. His emersion in the Offense Reports was so total, he did not push back from his work until the last folder of the left-hand stack was closed and pushed aside. The symmetry of having one pile completed and one remaining caused him to stop, stretch and look around the room. A detective sat at one desk interviewing a young female who looked on the verge of crying. At another desk, another detective was issuing what appeared to be a stern lecture to a man and woman, who intermittently threw each other looks of menace. Vince DiBiasi was not at his desk, but his sports jacket was still draped across the back of his chair.

Siderman walked out into a hallway and found a row of vending machines. He bought two packages of peanut butter cups, an apple and a half-pint of milk. He wolfed it all down at his desk and then broke the ice of the single remaining stack of files. It was a little after three p.m. He had been at it over four hours.

He found his rhythm again, but still the case files refused to associate themselves with John Gideon.

Until the tenth file of the right-hand stack.

The case of rape was easily five months old. It had taken place south of the city, on Southwest 189th Street, on a street of abandoned houses on Airport Authority property. The rape for which John Gideon had been arrested, tried and convicted had occurred on Southwest 186th Street, a scant three blocks north of the incident Siderman now stared at on a sheet of paper, case number A/R 877-80, the 877th reported incident of assault or rape of the previous calendar year.

Siderman’s heart-rate began to increase as he ran his eye down the left-hand margin for the report’s section listings. His eyes halted at the section titled SUSPECTS, its sub-sections titled S-1, S-2, and S-3, each box reserved for the description of a numbered suspect up to a total of three.

Only one sub-section, the one titled S-1, was filled in, for a lone suspect in a single incident of rape. He was described by the victim as a white male, aged 25–30, whose height was 5-10 and approximate weight was 170 pounds. He had dark brown or black hair and a short, dark beard. His eyes were brown and his complexion was described as fair.

The sub-section also included a box titled CLOTHING. In it was written. “Tan suit with matching vest.”

That he would find listed in the VEHICLE Section an ‘81 compact car was merely an academic exercise. There it was, a 1981 Chevette. With velvet bucket seats. And then something that was not mentioned in the Offense Report which eventually implicated John Gideon: a small air-freshener in the shape of a fir tree dangling from the car’s rearview mirror above the dashboard. Siderman had already seen Gideon’s car in the Impound Garage. No such air-freshener was hanging from its rear-view mirror.

Siderman closed the file as riddles began to surface in his mind. If John Gideon was purposely being railroaded into prison, then this case folder marked A/R 877-80 most certainly would have come up in the light of day to exonerate Gideon. But the file’s surfacing wasn’t allowed to happen. Why, then, hadn’t the file been removed altogether ? Why leave it available for someone like Siderman to stumble upon? Was there a connection between Ed Wintermute, Vince DiBiasi and a young man now convicted of the crime of rape? And if so, what could that connection possibly be?

Vince DiBiasi Was back at his desk. Their eyes caught and hooked. Siderman smiled at him and the detective smiled back and then dropped his head back to his paperwork.

Still, the presence of the file haunted Siderman. If there was a conspiracy, then the file shouldn’t be there! But it was there! So how had someone come to make such an incredible blunder?

And then Siderman had it. Of course the file had not been discovered. Because no one had been looking for it! Because no one even knew it was there!

When their eyes met again, Siderman motioned the detective to come over. DiBiasi Nodded, pushed back from his desk and rose. He came slowly down the room and sat in the chair set along side the desk, the interrogation chair. The detective didn’t seem all that comfortable in it, either.

“Find something, Siderman?”

“Yes,” said Siderman in an empty tone. “But first, let me tell you a story.”

The detective lit a small, thin cigar. “A story? I love stories, Siderman. And reporters are such good storytellers, so this should be good. Let’s hear it.”

“Once upon a time,” Siderman began, without malice or theatrics, “let us say roughly six weeks ago, a city detective was assigned to a case of rape. He investigates the crime scene and subsequently fills out an Offense Report according to the statements of the victim.

“For several weeks there appears to be no movement on the case and no suspects. Indeed, the case does not appear to be worked at all. Then quite suddenly, a suspect turns up, a young male who appears to fit all the criteria for arrest. He is arrested forthwith. Procedure is followed to the letter. The evidence gathered against him, while extremely circumstantial, nevertheless carries enough weight to prosecute. The suspect’s prosecution is successful, with the sentencing phase remaining and the investigation goes down in the books as a solved case. The investigating detective is commended for his work by his chief and the prosecutor is likewise commended by his superior. All in all, it is a seemingly well-handled matter at every level, from beginning to end.”

DiBiasi was shifting in his seat uneasily. His eyes were averting the reporter’s.

Siderman saw that no genuine purpose would be served now by prolonging the fall of the blade.

“Lieutenant DiBiasi,” Siderman said evenly and with compassion, “You have a son, don’t you? Be warned that I’ve done some checking on driver’s license data. You have a son and Ed Wintermute has a single daughter, Patricia Maria, and no other children.”

“Yes. I have a son.”

“His name is Victor, isn’t it.”

“Yes.” The detective’s eyes were wandering now, in a desperate attempt not to make contact with Siderman’s. “His name is Victor.”

“You’ll forgive me, lieutenant, but I’ve done some checking. The car he owns is a 1981 Chevette, isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t keep track of Vic all that much. He doesn’t live at home. And kids are always buying cars, or trading them in.”

“The physical description on his driver’s license matches the description given by the rapist’s victim,” Siderman said.

“It does? Well, that’s a very general description. It probably fits hundreds of young men in Vic’s age-group.”

“Lieutenant, your son owns a 1981 Chevette, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” came the begrudging voice.

“With a temporary license sticker? New cars bought in the same month usually bear similar serial numbers — 661-6777, 661–767, 661–676. The victim was shown John Gideon’s license plate number in court, a rear-window sticker number and she testified it was very similar to the rapist’s temporary sticker number. Similar , Lt. DiBiasi.”

The detective seemed immobilized. The ash of his cigar was over an inch long.

“Lieutenant, does your son own a tan suit with a matching vest?”

“A tan suit? Kids’ clothes these days. Who knows? I mean, the fads are always changing. One week it’s cowboy gear and the next it’s preppie, or leather, or beach-bum sloppy.”

Siderman waited patiently for the detective’s rambling discourse to fade.

Then...

“Yes. He has a tan suit. And a matching vest.”

“And his height is around 5-10? Weight about 170 pounds? And he has dark brown hair and a closely cropped beard?”