Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"When?" I asked her, tired of playing.

"When? What do you mean?" she said.

"I mean, when did he do it? What's so complicated? When would he get the chance?"

"Think about it," she said, no longer whispering.

I did. Inside myself, willing my face to go flat as my mind ripped through the possibilities.

Leaving only one.

"You're saying it's a— "

"Cop," Belinda finished my sentence. "Yes. And I think I know who it is."

I just looked at her— the name wasn't going to come out of my mouth. But I knew….

"Morales," she said. "Detective First Jorge Ortega Morales. He killed the woman on University Place. He killed them all."

I didn't argue with her— what was the point? As soon as she dropped her bombshell, she sat back on top of a two–drawer file cabinet, hugging herself, almost squirming in the embrace. The look on her face— I'd seen it before. In England, just before I went over to Africa and into a stupid war. I saw that same look on the hard face of a woman who called herself Colleen— a woman who planted bombs in department stores. Not for the revolution— that was just her excuse— for the thrill. Colleen always wanted to be close to her work— close enough to bask in the fallout.

That was Belinda, the way I saw her then— playing with fire, close enough to feel the heat…the only heat that really made her hot.

"Why am I in this?" I asked her. "You got all this stuff, what do you need me for?"

"Don't you understand?" she said, leaning forward, holding my eyes. "This isn't about the truth. If that's all it was, this would be easy— life would be easy. The way I figure it, you don't have many choices. Morales wants you. You know it and so do I. He's not the kind of man that'll stop. That's what gives him so much juice— he's insane. Out–of–his–fucking–mind insane. Most cops, they respect that. That's his rep— an Officer Down goes out over the box, Morales is gonna be the first one on the scene every single time. And if you're outside a door— a wood door— and you know a bad guy's inside— a nothing–to–lose killer— one of those crazy young don't–mind–dying gangbangers, probably got his Tec–9 stuffed with Teflon bullets so even your vest won't save you, okay? Well, Morales, he's going in, you can bet on it. He's been shot on the job. Twice. Couple of years ago, he caught a round in the chest taking down a dealer in Washington Heights. And he dropped the shooter…just blew him away He's got more CCRB complaints than anyone working— any detective, anyway— but they keep cutting him slack because he's a cops' cop, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know," I told her. "He may have a screw or two loose, but nothing you said about him makes him into a sex psycho."

"There's more," she said. "You remember McGowan, his old partner? The guy who worked the pimp detail?"

"Sure."

"Well, let me tell you something you don't know. McGowan pulled the pin last year. Retired. That was the price."

"The price for what?"

"McGowan always hated pimps— specially the kiddie pimps. You knew that. Everybody knew that. Morales knew it the best of all. Anyway, McGowan got this little girl to talk. Not just to him, to a grand jury. They finally had enough to take out this guy named Remington. You ever hear of him?"

I shook my head No— another lie.

"Okay, anyway, they go to this hotel where Remington was staying. In Times Square. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Remington took off. He made it down the back stairs, into an alley. That's where Morales shot him. In the head— he was dead before he hit the ground. And then Morales flaked him. With a throw–down piece— he always carries one. McGowan saw it all— he was standing right there. But he wouldn't testify against his partner. He didn't want to risk his pension either, not after so many years on the job. So he gave it up and went fishing."

"So Morales flaked a bad guy, so what? He's not the first, won't be the last. It don't make him— "

"Just listen to yourself," Belinda said. "You know McGowan how many years? A dozen? Twenty? Whatever, a long time, right? You ever know him to flake a perp? Even a live one? No. No you don't. 'Cause he never did it. But Morales, for him, that's a day at the office."

I knew that was true. I even heard Morales once threaten a pimp, telling the pimp that's what he was going to do if he didn't give up some information. That's what I was after too, so I told her, "I still don't get it," wanting to listen, not talk.

"The way I heard it, Remington had his hands up in the air," Belinda said, standing up and raising her own hands high enough to show me she wasn't wearing anything under the T–shirt. "Morales just walked up and smoked him. Cold–blooded murder. He put McGowan in a cross. The old man did the right thing— but Morales knows he made his own partner retire, and it's eating him up inside. He was always ready to go over the line— now he lives there."

Where I live too , I thought. "It doesn't add up," I said aloud. "Morales, he's a law–and–order freak, right enough— I can see him cutting some corners to make a case. But you got him doing the crimes without a— "

"Burke, I'm telling you, he's out of control. He's fucking nuts . That's why he's working solo now— nobody'll partner him. And I've got proof…."

"What proof?"

"After the shooting, he saw a shrink. A Department shrink. You have to— that's the rule. They call it a trauma screen— it's just to see if you're dealing with it okay. The shrink made a report. And I got a copy."

"How?"

Belinda ran her tongue over her lips— doing it slow, watching me from under her long eyelashes. Working undercover as a whore must have been a piece of cake for her.

"This report, it says he's the killer?" I asked her. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Read it for yourself," she said, getting up and walking over to a blue gym bag in the corner. She bent from the waist, held the unnecessary pose an extra beat, letting the T–shirt ride high, still working undercover, until she finally fished out a few sheets of paper. She straightened up and walked back over to me, holding the papers in her hands.

"Here," she said. "Take your time— I've got another copy."

I stuffed the papers in my jacket without looking at them. "I want to talk to him," I said.

"Morales?"

"No. Piersall. I want to talk to him."

"We can do that," she said quickly. "I'm going down to see him on— "

"You, me, and this reporter I know," I told her.

"I don't know. I— "

"There's no 'I don't know' in this," I said. "Either I talk to him— my way, the way I said— or I'll work out the week and keep the cash. You want more, you re gonna have to go the extra mile."

"Let me think about it," she said, calm now. "Can you call me on— ?"

"You know where to find me," I told her. "And it's your call. But the clock's running."

The psych report. Rigid, obsessive–compulsive. Superstitious. Guilt–ridden. All black and white, no gray areas. Unmarried. No significant peer relationships.

Q: What if you lost your job?

A: I'd eat my fucking gun.

Calvinistic. Angry. Feels he must keep tight hold on his emotions or he'll crack. Doesn't smoke, drink.

I returned Belinda's call, standing on the corner of Van Dam so I'd see if she went into action right after. She grabbed it on the first ring.

"Hi," is all she said, as if she could see through the telephone.

"You called me," I said.

"It's…okay. For the visit, I mean. The way you want it. I don't have a car. I usually rent one to go down there, but— "

"You don't need to do that," I told her. "Just give me your address and we'll pick you up."