Len Levinson - Without Mercy

He put on the jacket and looked at himself.

It was a little too big but that was no problem. He could wear it until the weather got warm, and then get three bucks for it at one of those used clothes places on the Bowery. For three bucks he could get a bottle of muscatel and drink himself into a stupor.

“Hey—whataya doin’ down there!”

Jackie Doolan looked up the stoop and saw a big guy with blonde hair. “I’m just lookin’ around.”

“Get the fuck out of here before I break your ass, you goddamn bum!”

“I ain’t hurtin’ nobody,” Jackie whined.

The man on the stoop pointed his finger. “You’re makin’ a mess on the sidewalk you cocksucker bastard and I’m the one who’ll have to clean it up! Get the fuck movin’!”

“Aw shit,” Jackie mumbled, because he really wanted to search through the other garbage cans in front of that building. It had been a big score so far and he just knew there were more valuable and edible things in the other cans.

The man took a step down toward him and made a fist. “I said move your fuckin’ stinkin’ ass.”

Jackie grimaced and slung his burlap bag over his shoulder. Some people won’t let a man live, he thought as he shuffled away. They won’t even let you have their garbage.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon four days later on Barrow Street in Greenwich Village, Patrolman Anthony Benelli and Patrolman George Shussler stood at the corner of Seventh Avenue, twirling their billy clubs and having a conversation. Benelli had black hair that covered his ears, and Shussler wore a thick brown mustache.

Walking past the street corner were pretty young girls, local businessmen dressed like hippies, and local characters. Benelli and Shussler looked at them while speculating on the terms of the contract currently under negotiation between the Patrolman’s Benevolent Association and the City.

“We oughta have a clause that guarantees no more layoffs,” Shussler said.

“Yeah,” agreed Benelli, “and they oughta restore the overtime clause we had in our other contract.”

Benelli noticed an old bum searching through trash barrels a short way down Barrow Street. He told Shussler that he thought the Civilian Review Board ought to be done away with.

The bum finished with the trash barrels and stumbled toward the two cops. Benelli’s trained eyes checked him out, noticing the red and black wool jacket too big for him, wondering where he had stolen it from. Then he saw the bloodstain on the sleeve. To an ordinary citizen the bloodstain might look like dried coffee or vomit, but Benelli had seen lots of blood in his professional career and knew what it looked like in its various forms.

“Hey, pick up on the bird in the bloody jacket,” Benelli said.

Shussler focused on the bum. “Looks like somebody must’ve busted the poor fucker in the snoot.”

Benelli wrinkled his forehead. “Wasn’t there something on an APB about a red and black wool jacket?”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “The Slasher’s jacket—But that bummo doesn’t fit the Slasher’s description.”

“The jacket does.” Benelli waited until the bum came closer, then pointed to him and said, “Hey you!”

Jackie Doolan looked at the cop through his old rheumy eyes, then looked around to see if he meant somebody else. “Me?”

“Yeah you. C’mere.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Nobody said you did. C’mere.”

Jackie Doolan huddled in the collar of his jacket and crab-stepped toward the two cops. “I ain’t done nothin’,” he repeated.

“Where’d you get that jacket?” Benelli asked.

Doolan pinched the stained sleeve. “You mean this jacket here?”

“No, I mean that one up there.” Benelli pointed to the sky.

Doolan looked up and squinted. “I don’t see no jacket up there.”

“I’m talking about the one you got on. What’s your name?”

“Jackie Doolan.”

“Where’d you get that jacket, Doolan?”

“This one here?”

“That one there.”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Then where’d you get it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you buy it?”

“Yeah, I bought it. I think.”

“Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Where’d the blood on the sleeve come from?”

“What blood?”

Benelli pointed to the sleeve. “That blood.”

Doolan looked and wrinkled his nose. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah, that’s blood.”

“I don’t know where it came from.”

“How come you bought the jacket too big for you?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t think you bought that jacket, Doolan. I think you stole it. We’re gonna have to take you over to the precinct house.”

Doolan’s eyes darted around frantically. “I didn’t steal it—honest!”

“Then where’d you buy it?”

“I didn’t buy it. I found it.”

“Where?”

“In a garbage can someplace.”

“Whereabouts?”

“I don’t remember.” A bit of saliva oozed out the corner of Doolan’s mouth.

“East side? West side? Uptown? The Village? Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

Benelli looked at Shussler. “We’d better take him to the precinct and let the guys from Midtown North figure out what to do with him.”

Rackman drove his unmarked Plymouth into the lot behind the new Sixth Precinct building on West Tenth Street in Greenwich Village. He entered the station house and walked to the sergeant’s desk. “I’m Detective Rackman from Midtown North. I understand you’ve got a suspect for me here.”

“Upstairs in the Detective Division.”

Rackman climbed the stairs and walked down the hall. The Sixth Precinct detectives had private cubicles, and Rackman found the one he wanted. The detective inside looked up, and Rackman recognized Burt Vickers, who’d been a patrolman with him in the Twenty-first Precinct of Brooklyn. They greeted each other noisily and shook hands.

“I just got a call that you’ve got a suspect for me in the Slasher case,” Rackman said.

“He’s not a suspect exactly,” replied Vickers, who had a five o’clock shadow that usually came out around noon. “But he’s wearing a jacket like the one in the APB and it’s got blood on the sleeve. C’mon, I’ll take you to the property room.”

They went downstairs to the basement, and Rackman signed for the jacket. He held it up in the air. “This is a pretty big jacket.” He looked at the collar, and it was a size 46. “Is the guy real big?”

“Naw, he’s a scarecrow and a bum. I’ll show him to you.”

“You charge him with anything?”

“He’s just a material witness so far.”

They walked down the corridor to the cellblock, which had glazed white brick walls and smelled of antiseptic. Vickers got the key from the sergeant on duty and unlocked the cell. Jackie Doolan was lying on a cot with his arm over his eyes. He needed a drink real bad.

“Sit up,” Rackman ordered.

Doolan pushed himself erect and swung his feet onto the floor. He looked at the two detectives and thought how awful it was that a person could be picked up off the street and locked up for nothing.

“What’s your name?” Rackman asked.

“Jackie Doolan.”

Rackman held up the jacket. “Where’d you get this?”

“It’s mine.” Doolan’s lips quivered and snot ran out of his nose.

“I know it’s yours, but where did you get it?”

“I found it.”

“Where?”

“I dunno.”

“You must have some kind of idea.”

“I need a drink.”

“I need to know where you got this jacket.”