Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

That's one of the beauties of cellular phones— you call from where you're supposed to meet someone, you're already there— no time for the other guy to set up a welcoming committee. Not that I distrusted Hauser, but if I let my old habits die hard, the same thing could happen to me.

I was at the curb when I spotted Hauser through the windshield. He's medium height, with reddish–brown hair and a trim beard to match, but it was his walk that drew my eyes. He was coming fast, like he always does. You stop to smell the roses in this neighborhood, you'll need a stomach pump.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, fell into step with Hauser. He used his own key to open the outside door— the security guard doesn't work weekends. Not a big loss either. One time I came to see Hauser during the week, signed the register "Deputy Dog. The guard never looked at it. Never looked at my face either.

We went up in the freight elevator, stopped at the fourth floor. Hauser unlocked his office and we both went inside. He walked around turning things on. As the screen on his computer was blinking into life, he pulled a couple of sheets of thermal paper out of his fax machine, glanced at them once, tossed them in a wire basket on his desk. He sat back in an old green leather swivel chair behind his desk, tipped his hat back on his head, said, "What's the story?"

To Hauser, that's the meaning of life.

I moved some files off the couch onto the floor and took a seat. Lit a smoke. Hauser didn't move, didn't reach for a notebook, didn't do anything. Okay, I called the meeting— it was my move.

"You know about a guy called George Piersall?" I asked.

"Sex killer," Hauser replied in his level newsman's voice. "He pleaded guilty to some kind of sex crime over in Jersey, then they charged him with a homicide in the Village. He came back to court here for that one. Rolled the dice, drew the max. So?"

"You follow the trial?"

"No. When it comes to rape, there's always the same three defenses: one, it never happened; two, she consented; three: SODDI. What's the big deal?"

SODDI. Some Other Dude Did It, That's a Legal Aid expression, but I figured Hauser could have pulled it from anywhere. It's Top of the Charts on Riker's Island— number one with a full clip of bullets.

"I'm not arguing about the Jersey one," I told him. "That's a closed coffin. But when it comes to the murder on University Place, I got someone who says Piersall's innocent."

Hauser raised an eyebrow, a classier version of a sneer, but I plunged ahead. "Not 'legally' innocent," I said, making little quote marks with my fingers, "innocent for real. This person says there was a signature to the murder…to three murders. A red ribbon."

"So there's a signature…Why couldn't it be Piersall's signature?"

"For the one on University Place, I guess it could have been. But I said three murders, not one. And this person says the other two happened since Piersall's been locked down. Same MO. Same signature."

"What's the punch line?" Hauser asked, leaning forward.

"The punch line is a two–parter," I told him. "One, the cops never released that piece of info, so it can't be a copycat. Two, the cops working the open cases, they're not looking backward , see? If they drop someone for the new crimes, it isn't gonna do Piersall any good."

"This…'person' of yours…how reliable are they?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you this much: the person is a cop. A detective, on the job right now."

"What's their interest in this?"

"Personal. At least I think so— I wouldn't swear to it."

"If you wouldn't swear to it, it has to be pretty shaky."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, giving him a half–smile to show I wasn't taking offense. "The question is…are you interested?"

"What's in it for me?" he asked. An honest man's question in our part of the world.

"The usual, I guess. Whatever you reporter guys usually want. Exclusive this, exclusive that…you know."

"Will this…'person' talk to me? Even off the record?"

"Sure. I can make that a condition. Only I don't need to tell them what you do, okay? I can just say you're working with me."

"No," Hauser said. "It has to be straight up— the truth from the beginning. If they want to spring this Piersall, they have to know the media could be a help."

"Maybe. But they wouldn't just want a lot of noise made, you understand? It'd have to be the real thing."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it was a stand–up conviction, far as I can tell. He's got a lawyer now. Raymond Fortunato."

"Oh," Hauser said, taking a breath. "It's like that, huh?"

"I don't know what it's like," I told him truthfully. "No way Fortunato's gonna do this without he gets paid. The person who came to me, they said Piersall has a trust fund. A nice–sized one."

"Well, I guess he can't spend it in prison, huh?"

I looked at Hauser for a minute, drifting back inside with my thoughts. Maybe he'd never really understand, but there's one thing about Hauser— he'd try like all hell. "There's plenty of uses for money behind the Walls," I told him. "There's a maximum amount you can have on the books— it's probably changed since I was inside, but it still won't be much. You can buy cigarettes with it. And you can trade a couple of crates of smokes for any work you want done, understand? You got money in there, you don't have to eat Mainline. If you're weak, or if you don't have a crew, you can buy protection. Enough cash, you can buy bodyguards. There's other things too: you can take care of the hacks— get them to look the other way when you have a visit…"

"So stuff could get smuggled in?"

"That, sure. There's sex too."

"You mean…other prisoners?"

"Yeah, some of them go on the whore inside. But that's not what I meant— if you're connected right, you can get it on right there."

"In the Visiting Room? In front of everyone?"

"Handjobs, maybe…I was talking about the real thing. They use the bathrooms for that. You take your visitor in there, do what you want. Inside, everything runs on juice— you got it, you can use it. Next time you read about a stabbing on Riker's Island, look close— you'll see it was nothing personal. Just turf strutting— mostly on the pay phones. Everyone's supposed to form a line, wait their turn. When your time's up, you're supposed to move on. You got cash on the books, you can pay for more time. And if that don't fly, you can buy some muscle, get you the same result, understand?"

"Yeah," said Hauser. I watched his face as he made mental notes. Hauser was an insatiable info–maniac— if it was out there, he wanted it.

"When you hear about a gun turning up inside, you can bet it was the guards," I told him. "Same for drugs, for serious weight, anyway— there's only so much stuff a visitor can mouth–carry. It's a special economy in there— the prices are real, real high. The guards, they're just people. Some of them go for the gold."

"You think that's what this Piersall may be doing?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. "It's too late for jury–juice now— Fortunato took it on appeal."

Hauser took off his glasses, polished them on a piece of cloth he took out of the pocket of his blue work shirt. His wrists were much thicker than you'd think from looking at his build. I saw a quick flash of a heavy steel chronograph as he polished. Without the glasses, his eyes had a harsh, tight–focused glint as he looked over at me. "Meaning he needs something spectacular…'newly discovered evidence,' like that, right?" Hauser said.

"Right," I agreed.

"So how come this 'signature' stuff wouldn't do the job for him?"

"According to this person, the one I spoke to, Fortunato subpoenaed the whole mess, files and everything. And there's no record of the red ribbons."