Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know how many of you folks who were arrested last night are familiar with the procedure here in New York City, but I thought I might fill you in on it for your own benefit and also because I have always been a maverick, witness my name.”

Mullaney had never heard of a maverick named Bozzaris, but he made a mental note to look it up in his encyclopedia when he got the chance and also when his landlady let him back into his room.

“We used to have a thing here in New York, oh maybe two three years ago, which has now been abolished, but which was a very good thing while it lasted. I am referring to the lineup, which I am sure at least some of you folks are familiar with, and which has been discontinued oh these past two three years. Now the lineup was a very good thing, I will repeat that, a very good thing, because it enabled detectives from squads all over the city to go down to Police Headquarters on Centre Street and get an actual glimpse of all the people who were committing crimes all over this fair metropolis, that was the purpose of the lineup. As some of you folks here may know, only felony offenders were taken to the lineup, and a felony is a crime punishable by death or imprisonment in a state prison, so we used to get quite a show down there every morning from Monday to Thursday. But unfortunately that’s all been done away with, be that as it may, we won’t go into police policies right now, let’s just say the loss has been keenly felt, especially by nonconformists like myself, witness my name.

“Well, I want to tell you that whereas the Police Department of the City of New York may have done away with the lineup, Detective-Lieutenant Alexander Bozzaris has not done away with it here in his private bailiwick, which happens to be this squad-room in this precinct right here. Every morning before we take you people down to the Criminal Courts Building to be arraigned, I have my own personal lineup for the felony offenders we pulled in the night before, just for the enlightenment of all the hard-working detectives on my squad. Now I want to assure you folks that this is just an informal little gathering, but in keeping with the landmark ruling of the Supreme Court of our land, I am compelled to mention several things to you which you may or may not care to take advantage of. I must advise you, first of all, that you don’t have to answer any questions I ask you, and also that anything you say can and will be used against you in court, though I’m sure you know we won’t take unfair advantage, nossir. Next, in keeping with the protection afforded to you by the Fifth Amendment of our Constitution, which gives you the right to choose between silence and speech, I have to tell you that you can ask for a lawyer, and if you can’t afford one, the state will have to get one for you, though I’m sure none of you is going to need a lawyer at this informal little get-together. And lastly, I want you to know that if you make any statements without a lawyer being present, the burden’s going to be on us to prove that you waived your rights. So, as you can see, we’re pretty much hamstrung here, and I’m sure none of you is going to have any objections about this little private lineup, do any of you have any objections?”

Mullaney thought for a minute that he might object, but then saw that none of the other prisoners were objecting, and decided he wouldn’t be a spoilsport.

“Okay then,” Bozzaris said, “if there are no objections, and I appreciate that, folks, I sincerely do, then I guess we can get on with our little lineup here. Please take seats on that bench over against the wall there, and I’ll bring my fellows in, and we can get this show on the road, I hope you all had a good night’s rest downstairs in our comfortable detention cells.”

Bozzaris pushed a button on his desk, and a detective appeared at the door. “All right, Sam,” he said, “bring the other fellows in, and let’s get this show on the road.”

“Right,” Sam said, and went out, and came back again not two minutes later with five other detectives who nodded at the lieutenant and then began to perform certain routine chores and duties around the room. One of them drew the green shades on the mesh-covered windows; another of them turned out the overhead light; yet another pulled down a white screen that was hanging on the wall opposite the lieutenant’s desk. Even in the semidarkness, Mullaney could sec that the screen was marked with graduated height readings: five-foot-four, five-foot-six, five-foot-eight, and so on. The detective named Sam turned on a spotlight that hit the screen in a sudden explosion of intense whiteness, and then the lieutenant cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s begin.”

“Ready to begin, sir,” the detective named Sam said.

Bozzaris cleared his throat again. “Well, let’s sec what we have here this morning,” he said in a friendly cheerful manner, and then called off the name and the age of the first offender.

The man who got off the bench and walked to the screen was nattily dressed in a dark brown suit, white shirt, yellow tie, and polished brown shoes. He looked like a jockey. He stood against the screen and Mullaney saw that his height was just five feet six inches. In the same cheerful friendly voice, Bozzaris told the assembled detectives why the man had been arrested, and then said, “No statement,” which Mullaney took to mean the prisoner hadn’t said anything when they’d apprehended him, a gambit he himself had employed the night before, mainly because he had been unconscious at the time.

“Well now,” Bozzaris said, “it seems that you picked somebody’s pocket last night, Jerry, is that right?”

“No,” Jerry said, “I’m innocent.”

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said in his friendly familiar voice, “two off-duty detectives saw you stick your hand into a man’s pocket and remove his wallet from it, isn’t that right, Jerry?”

“No, I’m innocent,” Jerry said, which Mullaney wished he wouldn’t say quite so often or quite so strenuously.

“Well, Jerry,” Bozzaris said, “when you were arrested we found a man’s wallet in your pocket, and the name in that wallet was David Gross. Now your name doesn’t happen to be David Gross, does it, Jerry?”

“No, it’s Jerry Cooke” Jerry said, sounding astonished.

“That’s what I thought, Jerry.”

“Yes, that’s what it is,” Jerry said, sounding even more astonished.

“So how did this wallet with a driver’s license for a man named David Gross, and a Diners Club card for this man David Gross, and oh all sorts of identification for this man David Gross, happen to come into your possession? Would you happen to know, Jerry?”

“Gee, I wouldn’t happen to know,” Jerry said.

“Unless you picked it out of his pocket, isn’t that right, Jerry?”

“Gee, I wouldn’t know,” Jerry said.

“Well, what do you think, Jerry?”

“I think I’m innocent.”

“You didn’t pick Mr. Gross’s pocket?”

“No, sir. That I definitely did not do.”

“Are you a pickpocket, Jerry?”

“Yes, sir, I am. And a very good one, I’m proud to say.”

“Jerry, I have your B-sheet here, and I think these gentlemen might be interested in knowing that you have been arrested for picking pockets on three separate occasions, and convicted on two of those occasions, so just how good a pickpocket you are would seem to be a matter for debate. Did you or did you not pick Mr. Gross’s pocket?”

“No, sir, I did not. I am innocent.”

“Jerry, you had better have new stationery made,” Bozzaris said. “Next case.”

One of the detectives took Jerry’s arm and led him to the door, where a uniformed policeman was waiting to escort him out. Mullaney watched with rising anticipation, knowing very well that he, personally, had not committed a felony or, for that matter, any crime — and hoping to tell that to Bozzaris at the earliest opportunity. But there were eight other prisoners in the room (including a woman, he now saw), and he wondered how long it would take Bozzaris to get to him.