Blood Innocents (25 page)
“Not anymore. He's been committed to a private mental institution in upstate New York,” Piccolini said. He slumped down into the chair behind his desk and stared at Reardon, waiting.
Reardon was incredulous. “When?”
“This morning.”
“Who told you?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I have a right to know,” Reardon said. This case, he knew, had very nearly broken him. He had been taken off it and reinstated like a puppet jerked on and off a stage. He had pried open secret, hidden lives and left them spilled out in the light of day where they filled the air with pain. He had endangered his career and reputation, even his sanity. Because of that, because of all that, he had a right to know.
“Somebody downtown told me,” Piccolini said.
Reardon looked at Piccolini accusingly. “You told them about the witness, about Mrs. Lassiter, about her making a positive ID of Dwight.”
“So what?” Piccolini said. “They're my superiors. I don't run the New York City Police Department.”
“You told the people downtown, and they told Wallace Van Allen,” Reardon said. “And they just placed Dwight in a hospital. And that'll be the end of the case.” He looked at Piccolini. “That
will
be the end of it, won't it? They'll just put a cap on it like a well with an embarrassing skeleton lying at the bottom of it. Karen Ortovsky's skeleton. Lee McDonald's skeleton.”
“What difference does it make?” Piccolini said nervously.
Reardon shook his head with amazement. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “They do have their own way of taking care of things, don't they?”
Piccolini shifted in his seat. He looked small, shriveled, as if the flame that burned in Reardon's eyes had singed and finally scorched him. “Like I said, what difference does it make? The kid is off the streets. The women he might or might not hurt are out of danger.”
“For a while at least.”
“For a long time,” Piccolini said. “You can be sure of that.”
“For as long as Wallace Van Allen wants him off the streets,” Reardon said. “That's how long he's off the streets.”
Piccolini waved Reardon's remark away with a sigh. “Anyway the women of New York are safer tonight,” he said halfheartedly, and Reardon could see that Piccolini could not look him straight in the eye.
“Bullshit,” Reardon said.
Piccolini ignored him. “And we don't have to worry about Petrakis.”
“You have to release him. I got a positive ID of Dwight Van Allen,” Reardon said. He could not believe what was going on around him.
Piccolini glanced furtively at Reardon. Then he said, almost in a whisper, “Petrakis' fingerprints were all over the ax.”
“Release him!”
Piccolini leaned back wearily in his chair. “Jesus Christ,” he said quietly, almost as if hoping Reardon would not hear him, “what the hell are we arguing about? I couldn't release him if I wanted to.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Reardon said.
Piccolini's face turned serious. “You don't know?”
Reardon stared menacingly into Piccolini's face. “What is it?” he asked coldly.
Piccolini cleared his throat and looked Reardon straight in the eyes. “Petrakis killed himself. He slashed his wrists in the Tombs. Bled to death.”
For a few spiraling seconds, Reardon could have sworn that the earth shifted under his feet. It was like that moment on the corner of Park Avenue when he had lost his bearings and had not known where he was.
But it was laced with a deeper sense of loss, a fundamental helplessness more awesome and devastating.
Reardon walked out of Piccolini's office and left the station house. He kept on walking until the chill wind seemed to scatter everything. And as he walked he tried to gather in the loose ends of the case like windblown strands of hair. He wanted to isolate what had happened, know about it in some fundamental way. But it was all too jumbled in his mind. All that he could capture of it was a sense of its enormity and impenetrable complexity. Something about wealth and power was here, and something about poverty and weakness, but Reardon recognized that he did not have the means to make sense of it.
And so he walked until afternoon became late afternoon, and late afternoon became night. He walked through the city, but he knew that he no longer really saw it. All those forms and structures and routines and functions that once had given it a certain dreadful stability were dissolving. Everything seemed in the process of closing in, and yet, at the same time, suspended precariously between chaos and absolute rigidity. Some great engine had crushed Andros Petrakis, but Reardon could not draw its image in his mind. Whatever it was, he knew that no interrogation room could contain it.
Finally he sat down on a bench in the Children's Zoo and gazed at the silent, empty cage of the fallow deer. He was exhausted. He did not know what he would do tomorrow, or the next day, or any day after that.
After a while he rose and walked up the stairs to Fifth Avenue. A sidewalk newsstand stood to his left and he stopped to buy a newspaper, more as a gesture of tribute to his father than anything else, remembering how on that day long ago when he was still a child his father had defended the blind newsdealer, how he had struck out in the wild and hopeful gesture of a questioner of Cain.
Reardon pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it in the newsdealer's hand. “
Daily News
, please.”
“A single, sir?” the newsdealer asked.
Only then did Reardon see that the man was blind. For a moment he stared at the white, sightless eyes and the slight palsied trembling of the hand that held the bill.
“Yes,” he said, then, with an inexplicable feeling of resistance and renewal, “yes, it's a single.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1980 by Thomas H. Cook
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
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