"How 1974 is that?" I said.
"They spelled oppression wrong," Quirk said.
"So Homicide think they've got a no-brainer," I said.
"Bunch of fucking amateurs," Quirk said. "Up against a crew of street-smart big-city homicide dicks." He drank another sip of his vodka.
"And?" I said.
"Amateurs one," Quirk said. "Dicks nothing."
"So far," I said.
"So far," Quirk said. "Being amateurs actually helped them."
"No MO," I said. "No arrest record. No mug shots to compare with the bank photos."
"Nobody recognized them," Quirk said. "The FBI never heard of them."
"They claim credit for any other jobs?" I said.
"Not that I know."
"Money ever show up?"
"Nope. But you know how that works. How many people get cash and check the serial numbers."
"Banks do," I said.
"Banks say they do," Quirk said.
My beer was gone. I gestured to the bartender for another one. The bartender picked up my glass and looked at Quirk. Quirk shook his head and the bartender went to draw me another Bud. I still preferred Blue Moon Belgian White Ale. But that was not one of the options at Arno's. In fact, Budweiser was the option.
"Murder weapon?" I said.
"Yep, and the car they used."
"Prints on the gun?"
"Gun was clean," Quirk said.
"Car?" I said.
"Most of the prints in the car belonged to the guy they stole it from."
"Trace the gun?"
"Yep. Ml carbine. Fully automatic. Stolen from a National Guard Armory in Akron, Ohio, in 1963."
"So who was in the bank?" I said.
"A black guy. A white woman. There was probably someone driving the car, but no one saw who it was."
"And that's it?" I said. "That's all there is?"
"That's absolutely fucking it," Quirk said.
"Anyone remember who had the carbine?"
"Far as I can tell, all of them had long guns. Nobody in there knew one from another," Quirk said. "Homicide never got a sniff."
"And they were on it when it was hot."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm starting out after it's been cold for twenty-eight years."
"You working for someone?"
"Emily Gordon's daughter is a friend of Paul Giacomin's," I said.
"Oh," Quirk said.
"Oh," I said.
"How is the kid?"
"Paul? He's not a kid anymore."
"I know how that works," Quirk said. "Two of my kids are older than I am."
"Anything else you can tell me, gimme someplace to start?"
"I told you what I remember," Quirk said. "You want to come in, you can look at the case files."
"I will," I said.
"She paying you top dollar for this?" Quirk said.
"She and Paul gave me six donuts this morning."
Quirk nodded thoughtfully.
"Yeah," he said. "That would buy you."
3
I sat at an empty desk in the Homicide Division outside Quirk's office. There were a lot of other desks in neat rows under bright lights. The floor was clean. The file cabinets were new. All the desks had computers on them. The old Berkeley Street headquarters was cramped and unattractive and looked like what it was. This place looked like a room for stockbrokers with bright suspenders and cuff links. Cops weren't supposed to be working under these conditions. I felt like I was in L.A. The file on Emily Gordon's murder was in a big brown cardboard envelope closed with a thick rubber band. It had never been computerized. I was grateful at least for that.
A detective named DeLong walked past and stopped and came back. He had on a green Lacoste polo shirt hanging over blue jeans. I could see the outline of his gun, in front, under the shirttail.
"Spenser," he said. "You re-upping?"
"Just stopped by to give you guys a hand," I said.
"Don't steal anything," DeLong said.
I looked around the Homicide Division. "Place is an embarrassment, DeLong."
"Yeah. I know. I'm turning into a sissy."
"You remember a bank robbery in Audubon Circle, in 1974? Woman got killed."
"1974? For crissake, Spenser, I was fifteen in 1974."
"Yeah," I said. "Me too."
DeLong looked like he was going to say something, then shook his head and walked off. I went back to my case file. Aside from the autopsy report and the crime scene write-up, the case file was mostly reports written by Mario Bennati, detective first grade. I didn't know him. Quirk said he had been the lead detective on the case and that he'd retired in 1982. I plowed along. Cops aren't usually graceful writers, and the jargon of investigative procedure didn't help. For a case that had no clues, no identifiable suspects, and no resolution, there was a lot of stuff, none of it helpful. Bennati had tried. His case log showed he had talked to all the customers in the bank, everyone he could find who'd been in the vicinity of the bank, and all bank employees. He'd talked to Emily Gordon's sister, Sybil Gold, to six-year-old Daryl Gordon, and to Emily Gordon's husband, Barry, from whom she had apparently been estranged at the time of the shooting. There had been talk with the FBI. The FBI would send over an intelligence report on the Dread Scott Brigade. There had been talk with the cops in San Diego. Talk with the DEA. Talk with the Army about the stolen carbine. Talk with the bank examiners. All the statements were included. I ploughed on. It was late afternoon. I needed a nap.
I drank a lot of bad coffee. The night watch came on. I was hungry. When I finally finished, it was dark outside. I closed the envelope and put it on the empty desk and leaned my head back against the chair and closed my eyes and took in some long, quiet breaths.
Where was the FBI intelligence report?
4
Quirk was still in his office, his jacket hung on a hanger on the back of his door. His feet were on the desk, his tie was loosened, his shirt cuffs rolled. He was looking at a large bulletin board across the small room, where a number of crime scene photographs were posted.
"You still here?" he said.
"You ever read this case file?" I said.
"Yes."
He kept staring at the photographs.
"Anything bother you in there?"
"Like what?"
"Like the FBI intelligence report."
Back Story "Ah," Quirk said, still scanning the pictures. "You spotted that, too."
"Any thoughts?" I said.
"Nope."
"You ever chase it down?"
"I never saw the case file until I got to be Homicide Commander. By then the case was cold. Command staff don't much like it when the Homicide Commander, the new Homicide Commander, starts up with the Feds over a cold, cold case we never solved."
"Politics affects police work?" I said.
"Shocking, isn't it. How was it when you were a cop?"
"Politics affected police work," I said.
"How disappointing," Quirk said.
"Lead investigator was a guy named Bennati," I said. "He still around?"
"Retired," Quirk said. "Lives up on the North Shore now."
I looked at Quirk. He was scanning the crime scene photos again.
"That's why you offered me the case files," I said.
"Spirit of cooperation," Quirk said.
"That FBI reference bothered you, too, but it didn't seem like a good idea to pursue it. But you don't forget anything. So when I finally came along. "
Quirk continued to study the photos.
"I'm supposed to be an executive now," Quirk said. "Manage the division. Let the detectives do most of the hands-on stuff. But I like to stay late, couple nights a week, and look at the crime scene coverage while it's quiet, and see what I can see."
I nodded.
"Woman and two children killed in this one," Quirk said, nodding at the pictures. "Woman was raped first."
"I'll call you tomorrow," I said. "Get Bennati's address."
"Call Belson," Quirk said. "He'll get it for you."
5
Mario Bennati lived in Gloucester in a small, gray-shingled house with a deck where you could sit and drink beer and look at the Annisquam River. He and I were sitting there, doing that, in the late afternoon. With us was a large friendly German shepherd named Grover.