Doolan’s eyes darted around frantically. “I didn’t steal it—honest!”
“Then where’d you buy it?”
“I didn’t buy it. I found it.”
“Where?”
“In a garbage can someplace.”
“Whereabouts?”
“I don’t remember.” A bit of saliva oozed out the corner of Doolan’s mouth.
“East side? West side? Uptown? The Village? Where?”
“I don’t remember.”
Benelli looked at Shussler. “We’d better take him to the precinct and let the guys from Midtown North figure out what to do with him.”
Chapter Eight
Rackman drove his unmarked Plymouth into the lot behind the new Sixth Precinct building on West Tenth Street in Greenwich Village. He entered the station house and walked to the sergeant’s desk. “I’m Detective Rackman from Midtown North. I understand you’ve got a suspect for me here.”
“Upstairs in the Detective Division.”
Rackman climbed the stairs and walked down the hall. The Sixth Precinct detectives had private cubicles, and Rackman found the one he wanted. The detective inside looked up, and Rackman recognized Burt Vickers, who’d been a patrolman with him in the Twenty-first Precinct of Brooklyn. They greeted each other noisily and shook hands.
“I just got a call that you’ve got a suspect for me in the Slasher case,” Rackman said.
“He’s not a suspect exactly,” replied Vickers, who had a five o’clock shadow that usually came out around noon. “But he’s wearing a jacket like the one in the APB and it’s got blood on the sleeve. C’mon, I’ll take you to the property room.”
They went downstairs to the basement, and Rackman signed for the jacket. He held it up in the air. “This is a pretty big jacket.” He looked at the collar, and it was a size 46. “Is the guy real big?”
“Naw, he’s a scarecrow and a bum. I’ll show him to you.”
“You charge him with anything?”
“He’s just a material witness so far.”
They walked down the corridor to the cellblock, which had glazed white brick walls and smelled of antiseptic. Vickers got the key from the sergeant on duty and unlocked the cell. Jackie Doolan was lying on a cot with his arm over his eyes. He needed a drink real bad.
“Sit up,” Rackman ordered.
Doolan pushed himself erect and swung his feet onto the floor. He looked at the two detectives and thought how awful it was that a person could be picked up off the street and locked up for nothing.
“What’s your name?” Rackman asked.
“Jackie Doolan.”
Rackman held up the jacket. “Where’d you get this?”
“It’s mine.” Doolan’s lips quivered and snot ran out of his nose.
“I know it’s yours, but where did you get it?”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“I dunno.”
“You must have some kind of idea.”
“I need a drink.”
“I need to know where you got this jacket.”
“I can’t remember.”
“You’d better think about it if you want to get out of here. I’ll be back to see you in a little while.”
Rackman and Vickers left the cellblock and went upstairs to the main room of the station house. Rackman used the desk sergeant’s phone and called Inspector Jenkins. He told Jenkins he was taking the jacket to the lab to determine whose blood was on it, and requested that someone pick up Doolan and transfer him to Midtown North.
Rackman carried the jacket with the tips of his fingers out to his car and threw it onto the back seat. He drove across town to Broadway and downtown to police headquarters. In the lab, he told a technician that he wanted to know if the blood on the jacket matched the blood of Rene LeDoux. While the tests were taking place, Rackman sat in the waiting room, smoking cigarettes and hoping the blood was Rene LeDoux’s, so he could have a clue to the Slasher’s identity.
An hour later the technician came to the waiting room. “The blood samples match,” he said.
Rackman took the technician’s report and the jacket to Midtown North, stopping first in Jenkins’ office to apprise him of the lab finding.
Jenkins sat behind his desk and toyed with a ballpoint pen, his face betraying no emotion at the news. When Rackman was finished, Jenkins said, “You gotta squeeze that little scumbag until he remembers where he found the jacket.”
Rackman went down to the basement and told the guard to let him into Doolan’s cell. The guard unlocked the bars and Rackman stepped into the odor of Doolan’s clogged commode. Graffiti and garish drawings covered the walls, and Doolan lay on his cot, quivering and drooling. Rackman leaned over him and shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Doolan. Your country needs you.”
Doolan unsheathed his eyes. “Huh?”
“Get up.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sick.”
“I know what you need. A bottle of wine. Am I right or wrong?”
“You’re right.”
“Come with me and I’ll get you one.”
Doolan raised himself on one elbow. “You will?”
“Sure.”
Doolan dragged himself to his feet and ran his fingers through his greasy hair before putting on his old fedora. His breath smelled almost as bad as the commode. “My favorite is muscatel.”
“Then it’s muscatel you’ll have. Come with me.”
Rackman and Doolan walked out of Midtown North and got into Rackman’s unmarked Plymouth. Doolan furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of the weird events that had befallen him during the past few hours, as Rackman drove around the corner to a liquor store on Ninth Avenue. Rackman double-parked in front of the liquor store, helped Doolan out of his seat, and together they approached the door. Dusk was falling on Manhattan, and the store had its neon lights on.
The proprietor of the liquor store wrinkled his nose when he saw Doolan wobble into his establishment. He was about to throw him out but then realized he was in the company of Rackman.
“Where do you keep your wine?” Rackman asked the proprietor, who wore a gray cotton jacket and looked like he should be a teller in a bank.
“Over there,” the proprietor replied, pointing to a section of shelves.
Rackman dragged Doolan to the shelves and pointed to the bottles. “Which one you want, champ?”
Doolan squinted at the bottles and went weak in the knees. “Muscatel.”
“Any particular brand?”
“Just muscatel.”
Rackman took down two pints of a moderately priced domestic muscatel and carried them to the proprietor, whom he paid. Rackman and Doolan went to the car and got in, while the proprietor just watched them through the front window of his store, wondering what their story was.
Rackman stashed the two bottles under his seat and started up the engine.
“Can’t I have some now?” Doolan asked pathetically.
“Wait until we get around the corner.”
With a shudder and a growl, Doolan scrambled toward the bottles under the seat. Rackman picked him up and flung him back in place.
“Stay put over there,” Rackman ordered.
“Please…”
“Just hang on a few minutes more.”
Doolan dove under the seat again. Rackman pulled him up and realized he wouldn’t be permitted to drive unless he gave the bum some wine.
“Okay, I’ll give you one of the bottles,” Rackman said, holding Doolan back, “but you’ve got to promise me something.”
“Okay I promise,” Doolan replied quickly, his ears twitching.
“I haven’t even asked you yet.”
“I promise anyways.”