The Cold Room Read online

  ‘You, too. Get up against the wall next to your partner.’ I came around the overturned desk to confront Aslan as he rose to his feet, slamming the heel of my left hand into his chest. He staggered backward, but continued to glare at me. Though I was a good five inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, Aslan was powerfully built and obviously unafraid. For a moment, I thought I might have to shoot him, but he finally turned when I stepped forward.

  ‘Put your hands against the wall,’ I told him, ‘and spread your legs. I’m going to search you.’

  ‘I will tell you story,’ he said as he complied, ‘of boys becoming mens in Chechnya. Are you wishing to hear this story?’

  ‘I’m interested in anything you have to say, Aslan. That’s because you’re such an interesting guy.’

  Aslan ignored the sarcasm. His expression had hardened by then. ‘New Year’s Day this story begins, when Russians attack Grozny to drive out rebels. Airplanes they use, mortars, artilleries, missiles, tanks. In one hour, four thousand rounds, boom, boom, boom, boom. This goes on for three months, every day, always bombs falling, house crashing down, glass broken from windows, everywhere flames, everywhere smoke. At end, Grozny is no more a city. Grozny is ruins like of ancient kingdom.’

  I searched Aslan carefully, emptying each pocket, tossing items off to the side. He didn’t flinch, not even when I confiscated his wallet.

  ‘On first night, mother killed and brother killed. On fifth night, father killed. I run to uncle’s house, but house is no more. Boy has only on self to rely. How does boy do this? Fear first, for boy, too scared to think. Then hunger eats at stomach and boy runs through streets, hiding in shadows from snipers, like rat. This is trick Russians play. First bomb, then burn, then shoot when people come out. If civilian, no matter. If child, no matter. All are same to them.’

  I moved over to Konstantine and took his wallet as well. He was paying close attention to Aslan’s tale and I got the distinct impression that he was hearing it for the first time.

  ‘How survive, huh? For boy? First time boy discovers food, gang of children take it away. Later, boy joins gang, takes food from others. Oldest in gang is fourteen. Youngest is seven. When find wounded Russians, they kill them with knives. No mercy. Kill and take gun. Now grows stronger, this boy. Little more every day. Until no longer is rat. Is wolf.’

  At that point, I backed away from the two men, giving myself a little reaction room while I examined Konstantine’s and Aslan’s green cards. Both appeared to be legitimate and both listed Russia as country of origin.

  ‘Boy can no more be sheep when boy becomes wolf. This is thing about wolfs. Once is wolf always is wolf.’

  I can’t say how long Aslan would have rattled on if I hadn’t chosen that moment to kick his feet out from under him. As it was, his head banged into the paneling as he crashed to the floor and he barely got his hands out in time to break his fall.

  ‘Stay down there, wolfman, while I finish with your partner.’

  Finishing with Konstantine meant holstering my weapon while I bent his massive arms behind his back and put handcuffs on his wrists. Konstantine didn’t fight me, but I felt his strength nevertheless. We were of even height, with him much the heavier, though most of it – or so I hoped – was fat.

  ‘Why you are arresting me?’

  ‘Marijuana possession.’

  Animated for the first time, he looked at me in disbelief. ‘I wasn’t smoking this joint.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, Konstantine. You’re the president of the company and you’re responsible.’ I drew my weapon. Aslan was behaving himself, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘This is bullshit, this little joint. This is a parking ticket.’

  ‘Not so. Smoking marijuana in a public place is a misdemeanor. Now, check this out, just so we’re all on the same page. I’m going to walk you through the door and down the street to my car. You’re not going to resist or try to run away. Meanwhile, the wolf of Chechnya will remain inside the building. That’s because if the wolf shows his fangs, he not only goes to the top of the endangered species list, he faces the threat of immediate extinction.’

  I gave them a moment to think it over, then took hold of Barsakov’s right arm just above the elbow, squeezing hard enough to let him know how much it would hurt if I clamped down. We had two blocks to walk and I didn’t want him to get ideas. Nevertheless, when we reached the door, I couldn’t resist a final diversion. I turned slightly, so that I could see Aslan out of the corner of my eye. He was holding his palm against the top of his bald and reddened scalp.

  ‘Funny thing about detectives,’ I told him, ‘the best ones have great memories. And what I remember is that the Russian attack on Chechnya took place in the mid-nineties. Now, you, Aslan, you’re how old? Thirty-five? And you were how old when the Russians attacked? Twenty? That’s a long way from fourteen.’

  Aslan continued to stare at me for a moment, hatred still apparent in his black eyes. Then he began to laugh, a phlegmy choking laugh that came within an eye-blink of a convulsion. Still he managed to get his message out. ‘Wolfs,’ he shouted, to me, to Konstantine, to his thoroughly humiliated spirit, ‘do not forget rabbits. Again someday we are meeting.’

  I might have added, ‘Sooner, rather than later,’ but I was already focusing on the tasks ahead.

  We made a show of it, Konstantine and I, when we strolled into the Nine-Two. Konstantine with his burgundy warm-up suit and his lime-green socks, his squinty eyes and his great balloon of a head. Me in ratty jeans, a shirt with dark stains under each armpit, humidity-driven hair that rose from my scalp like a fright wig. Konstantine was cool throughout, absorbing the scrutiny of the various cops we passed on our way to the second floor, his expression unchanging, until I finally brought him into an interview room and sat him down.

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ he said. ‘I have my rights.’

  ‘Speaking of rights, are you right-handed or left-handed?’ When he didn’t reply, I uncuffed his left hand, then closed the empty handcuff around the leg of a small table bolted to the floor.

  I suspect it was this final humiliation that set him off, that motivated him to throw a clumsy left in the general direction of my head. I avoided the blow easily, then grabbed his wrist on the way back and forced it down onto the table in front of his chair.

  Konstantine fought me all the way, his eyes squeezed shut, groaning in frustration. Even when I had his wrist pinned, he didn’t give up, struggling on until he finally ran out of energy. Then I leaned down over him, placing my lips a few inches from his ear.

  ‘You were observed on South Fifth Street,’ I told him, ‘when you disposed of that girl’s body, observed by a reliable witness. I’m going to find that witness, bring him into the house, have him make a formal identification, then charge you with the crime of murder. Now, I know you didn’t commit this murder, like I know you weren’t smoking that joint. But I just don’t give a shit. That’s because I’ve been a cop long enough to understand that I work in a give-and-take business. As in, if you don’t give me the real murderer, I’m gonna take you instead.’

  I wanted to get out the door, right then and there, to begin my search for Clyde Kelly, but I still had a few details to arrange. I went to my locker first, for the spare shirt and trousers I kept for emergencies, then into the washroom where I stripped to the waist and scrubbed myself with paper towels before combing my hair. When I was done, I headed directly for Drew Millard’s office.

  Millard was at his desk when I came in, sitting behind a semicircle of 8x10 photographs. The snapshot quality photos were of his wife and his six children. They were all, he’d once told me, that got him through the day.

  ‘I found him, loo,’ I announced. ‘I found the asshole who killed that Jane Doe last month.’

  Feigning a humility that in no way mirrored my inner feelings, I went on to explain that there was nothing miraculous about the break I’d finally caught. It was simply a matter of burning a little shoe l
eather, of putting the vic’s likeness before the community until somebody dropped a dime. Now I had a suspect and an excuse to detain him while I contacted the witness.

  Millard disagreed on only one point, the charge against Barsakov. In New York, possession of less than twenty-five grams of marijuana is a mere violation, punishable by no more than a fine. I wanted to charge Barsakov with smoking marijuana in a public place, a misdemeanor, because I needed an excuse to hold him while I looked for Clyde Kelly.

  Maybe, Millard pointed out when I finished my pitch, the door to Domestic Solutions was unlocked, and maybe Barsakov was smoking the joint when I walked in. He wasn’t doubting my word. But the narrow definition of public space in the penal code did not include place of business.

  ‘Bottom line,’ he finally said, ‘we can put him in the system, but the judge’ll toss the case when it comes up for arraignment tomorrow morning. Assuming you don’t find your witness by then.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning will be fine. And you could do me one other favor.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Find someone to fingerprint the suspect. I want to make sure he isn’t operating under an alias.’

  ‘No problem.’

  I went from Millard’s office to Bobby Bandelone’s cubicle, there to request a second favor. Procedure required that I show Clyde Kelly a photo array that included Barsakov before I put the suspect in a line-up. I needed someone to snap Barsakov’s photo, and the photos of five other white men who looked reasonably like him, with the precinct’s Polaroid.

  Bandelone put up only a token resistance when I asked him to perform this little service. Maybe it was something in my eyes, something he recognized. Bandelone was a very good detective. Or maybe he was a bit afraid of my reputation as an IAB snitch. Or maybe he just thought it better to stay on Crazy Harry’s good side. I didn’t much care. I was already focused on Clyde Kelly.

  FIFTEEN

  The Karyn Porter-Mannberg Senior Residence on Wythe Avenue was typical of others scattered through the five boroughs. Four stories high, the building spread across three lots and was virtually without architectural detail. Red brick, green window frames, white sills beneath the windows, absolutely regular, absolutely functional. But whatever Porter-Mannberg lacked in style, it was clean and solid. The hot water would be hot, the toilets would flush, heat would be forthcoming in the winter. For the elderly poor, like Clyde Kelly, it was the difference between a tolerable decline and the absolute hell of a men’s shelter.

  The white-tile lobby I entered was just large enough to hold the mailboxes and a small desk. A security guard sat behind the desk. Tall and thin, he wore a blue uniform with a nametag over the left breast identifying him as OFFICER ROBERTSON. A thick leather belt around his waist held a canister of mace, a pair of handcuffs and a folding knife.

  ‘I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’ I displayed my shield for the customary three seconds. ‘Is he upstairs?’

  ‘Nope. Went out about one o’clock and ain’t come back since.’

  ‘Will he return for dinner?’

  ‘Mostly, he does.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost six o’clock. ‘What time is dinner served?’

  Robertson smiled. ‘Well, it ain’t exactly served, but you can get a hot meal between six and seven. After that, it’s peanut butter and jelly. But you ain’t gotta worry. Clyde always comes back in time for the curfew at ten o’clock. Sleepin’ in the street makes him nervous.’

  With little choice in the matter, I settled down to wait.

  A few minutes before seven, a short black man hustled through the door. I locked eyes with the guard who nodded at the new arrival. He wore a camouflage T-shirt over a pair of cargo pants and he caught an attitude when I stopped him, despite the gold shield I held in my hand.

  ‘Ain’t got time for no bullshit,’ he declared. ‘Ah’m gonna miss my dinner.’

  ‘This’ll only take a second.’ I stepped between him and the stairs. ‘I just need a little help here. I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’

  Officer Robertson spoke up. ‘Ain’t nothin’ bad, Percy. Jus’ speak to the detective.’

  Percy tossed Robertson a hard look that spoke of grievances past, grievances unresolved. ‘Last time I took notice,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t in your army and I don’t got to take your orders.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I echoed, ‘this is between you and me.’ I added a smile to my comment before offering the man a deal. ‘By the way, I’m guaranteeing your dinner. You don’t get fed upstairs, the Chinese take-out’s on me.’

  Percy huffed twice, in an effort, no doubt, to show me that he was a hard sell. Then he said, ‘I jus’ come from Clyde. We was under the bridge, hangin’ out.’

  ‘Is he on his way back to the residence?’

  ‘Naw, he went to the festival, watch ’em tote that statue. Clyde’s a Catholic.’

  ‘What festival?’

  He flared up, his shoulders rising as though I’d deliberately provoked him. ‘You know, where the wops carry that statue down the street. I can’t pronounce that name they call it.’

  Robertson supplied the missing information, his voice dripping contempt for Percy’s ignorance. ‘The Giglio. It’s called the Giglio.’

  His pronunciation of the word – JEEL-yo – finally kicked my brain into gear. Some weeks before, a long memo from the Community Affairs Officer had circulated through the Nine-Two, a kind of reminder. I’d read the memo from beginning to end, intrigued by the details.

  Every year, according to the memo, one of the many Catholic churches in Williamsburg throws a festival to honor an Italian bishop whose name I couldn’t recall. The highlight of each day is the ‘dance’ of the Giglio. This may not seem like such a big deal, but the Giglio includes, among its elements, a seventy-foot tower crowned with a statue of the saint and a wooden platform large enough to hold a brass band, a priest from the parish, the capo in charge, and a few local celebrities. Beneath the platform, more than a hundred of the strongest and most virile men in the neighborhood crouch, their shoulders pressed to aluminium crossbars, awaiting a signal from the capo. They raise the four-ton Giglio when that signal comes, then carry it a short distance before setting it down. This process is repeated a number of times.

  I’d put the memo to one side after reading it. From a policing standpoint, the issues were about crowd control and petty crime. They had nothing to do with Detective Harry Corbin.

  ‘You know where this festival takes place?’ I asked.

  ‘Up the Northside, on Havemeyer Street. But if you fixin’ on locatin’ Clyde, you can just put that shit away. Them guineas, they pack ’em in like sardines when they dance the statue. You can’t hardly move.’

  Percy was right. I approached Havemeyer Street along North Seventh Street, from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, only to find the short block choked with pedestrians, road and sidewalks both. I could hear a band playing in the distance. The music was up-tempo, heavy on the brass and so obviously Italian that I was instantly transported to the opening scene of The Godfather, a reflex I knew I’d carry into the grave. But I could see neither band, nor Giglio, nor any sign of a procession from where I came to a halt. The hundreds of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between me and Havemeyer Street were only the crowd’s overflow. The task was hopeless.

  I retraced my steps to the end of the block, then called Drew Millard at the Nine-Two. Not only, he told me, was Barsakov still in custody, an ADA was expected at any moment to prepare warrants.

  ‘You’re not havin’ a problem locating the witness, are you, Harry?’

  ‘No, we’ll be along.’

  ‘Good, because if Kelly doesn’t show up, I’m gonna look like a complete asshole.’

  There was nothing more to say, and I headed back to the senior residence, my focus already shifting to Konstantine Barsakov. Interrogation, the duel in the box, is more than my specialty. It’s the main reason I continue to carry the badge.

  It’s n
ever in a suspect’s interest to confess to the police. The police cannot, by law, make deals. Deals are the province of the District Attorney. Most suspects know that very well, yet they confess anyway. They confess because good detectives make them confess. And not by any use of physical force more compelling than an occasional slap. No, detectives, the good ones, anyway, know how to unlock the locks, to open the mind, to force all that guilty knowledge through a single outlet. From the lungs, up the trachea, through the larynx, over the lips and gums. Then the leap, through space, into the welcoming ear of the patient detective.

  It doesn’t always work, of course, but I wasn’t expecting Konstantine to be that difficult. The truth, though it wouldn’t set him free, would reduce his potential sentence by more than twenty years. That’s the difference between second-degree murder and illegal disposal of a body, the worst violation I could charge him with, since accessory after the fact is not a crime in New York. My primary task was to convince him that he’d go down for the murder unless he told me the truth; that was the necessary first step from which all else would flow.

  According to Clyde, disposing of Jane’s body was just a job to Barsakov, no more distasteful than tossing bags of garbage into a vacant lot. Hardened criminals can’t be cajoled. Nor will an appeal to conscience do the trick, not when your suspect doesn’t have a conscience. I would have to present the case against him, remaining firm, though dispassionate. Here are the facts of life, Konstantine. Read ’em and weep.

  The presentation would begin with my leading Barsakov to a line-up room. There he would be made to pose with five other men, all cops. Step forward. Turn to the right. Turn to the left. Look straight ahead. Konstantine, of course, knew he’d been observed on the night he carried Jane to South Fifth Street. The line-up would only confirm his worst fears.

  ‘It’s the eyes,’ I’d explain, once I got him back in the little room. ‘They’re like havin’ a tattoo on your forehead. You can’t say, “it wasn’t me.” No jury would believe you. And by the way, we’re gonna search the warehouse before the night’s over. If the victim was butchered inside, we’ll find evidence. I don’t care what you cleaned up with. Plus, I have witnesses who put a squinty-eyed, fat man with the woman you dumped on South Fifth Street. You know, back when she was still alive. Whatta you wanna bet they identify you, too?’