Mike Hammer--King of the Weeds Page 6

  “Did Officer Chambers read him the Miranda warning?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ms. Clark, this was before the Miranda warning.”

  She flushed in embarrassment, just a little.

  I went on, “Officer Chambers gave Olaf the then standard anything-you-say-can-be-used-against-you caution.”

  “Were there other witnesses to the arrest?”

  “There might have been, but nobody intervened. When you do get the proper papers dug out of storage, I don’t believe you’ll find any other witnesses listed.”

  Across from me, Pat nodded at that.

  She asked me, “Did you stay with the suspect while Officer Chambers called for back up?”

  “No. The opposite. Officer Chambers gave me his call box key and I went to the nearest one and phoned the incident in. In a few minutes a squad car arrived and the prisoner was transported.”

  “Did Officer Chambers institute a search of Mr. Olaf’s person?”

  “Just a quick frisk for weaponry, not what I’d call a full-on search. Didn’t have him empty his pockets, for example. The routine was very proper.”

  She nodded. “Is there anything further that you can recall?”

  “No. It was quick, cut and dried, in the best sense.”

  She gave me a crisp professional smile. We were almost friends now. “Thank you, Mr. Hammer. That was helpful. My apologies for doubting the appropriateness of your accompanying Captain Chambers here this afternoon.”

  “No problem, Ms. Clark.”

  Pat asked her, “Can you tell me anything about this Brogan character who’s come forward?”

  She considered that, then said, “I suppose I could give you a quick rundown.”

  “Please.”

  Mandy Clark reached down and withdrew a single page of typewritten script from her briefcase. She spread it before her and referred to it as she spoke: “They were neighbors of a sort. Henry Brogan lived two tenements down from Olaf. They used to play chess together, mostly in a public park. When they had money, they drank at the same saloons.”

  I asked, “Real tight, these two?”

  “More like birds of a feather. Nobody else wanted anything much to do with them.”

  Pat asked, “How’d they support themselves?”

  “Welfare.”

  I grunted. “Well, one of ’em supported himself by robbing and killing homosexuals. The question is, which?”

  She didn’t bother to answer. What the hell—it was rhetorical. She put the single sheet back in her briefcase, then gave me a cool, professional smile.

  “If you could wait outside in the hall, Mr. Hammer, I would like to go over a few things with Captain Chambers without any further input from you, however expert and/or colorful it might be. Meaning no offense.”

  I glanced at Pat, who nodded his approval, and I said, “No problem.”

  She was an efficient young lawyer, I’ll give her that. Pat was only in there for ten more minutes. While I waited, though, I had that funny itch I got whenever I had to cool my heels like this. I had quit smoking a good long time ago, twenty years anyway. But certain situations gave me a vague hankering for a cigarette even after all this time. Not when or where you’d expect, like after a meal or a smoky bar, no. But in waiting areas at police stations or hospitals, the old nicotine craving kicked back in.

  When they had emerged from the room, I exchanged nods with Ms. Clark as she clip-clopped off in her heels. She had a nice rear-end motion under that mannish executive suit.

  “Mike,” Pat said disapprovingly, “you’re old enough to be her father.”

  “At least. But I’m not her father.”

  “You’re engaged, remember.”

  “Hey, I’m perfectly satisfied with the meal I’ve been served. But that doesn’t mean I can’t glance in a bakery window… What’s the D.A.’s office up to, buddy, do you think?”

  We were walking down the corridor now, taking our time heading to the exit.

  “I’m not sure they know exactly. Just that they’re being extra careful. And I mean extra. The public’s view of the police is lousy right now, and the media is ready to tackle anything that will throw dirt on the department.”

  “Typical,” I said.

  “Mike, they have a right, even a responsibility, to explore subject matter like the over-reaction at Waco or the assault on Rodney King. It doesn’t help when a bunch of bad apples in Brooklyn haul in the wrong man and give him a broom-handle ass-raping.”

  “That does make for lousy public relations.”

  He almost shuddered. “Imagine what the media could make out of some poor slob who spends forty years of his life in prison on a bum rap.”

  Behind us more clip-clops of high heels were coming our way, and when we turned, it was Mandy Clark again, working to catch up with us.

  “Glad I caught you, Captain,” she said.

  He gave her half a smile. “Not always comforting words to hear from a district attorney.”

  She did not smile at that. “I just spoke briefly to the D.A.”

  Pat’s eyes half-closed as he regarded her. “What’s your boss got on his mind, Mandy?”

  “He’d like you to interview Rudolph Olaf before they release him, Captain Chambers. That means… tomorrow at the latest.”

  Pat did not hide his surprise or his displeasure. “For God’s sake, what for?”

  Very deliberately, the lovely Assistant District Attorney said, “For one thing, to get your read on the man. For another, maybe you can determine why, forty years ago, Mr. Olaf let himself be convicted without putting up any kind of reasonable defense.”

  “Maybe he had a lousy lawyer,” Pat said brusquely.

  Mandy nodded. “Well, he doesn’t this time.”

  “Rufus Tomlin,” I said.

  They both looked at me like I knew more than I should—I’d had that look plenty of times from cops and D.A.s.

  “That’s right, Mr. Hammer,” she said. “The celebrated Rufus Tomlin, ‘Champion of the Underdog,’ has a reported multi-million dollar lawsuit ready to drop on New York City on behalf of the much-inconvenienced Rudy Olaf.”

  And on behalf of the celebrated Rufus Tomlin too, I thought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nothing but faces had changed at the prison. No one had to be told what it was, this dismal walled-in series of buildings filled with society’s refuse, its ancient marble formed of local stone by long dead prisoners forced to build their own rooms in hell.

  The foreboding fifty-acre sprawl on the east bank of the Hudson was the original “up the river” destination for everybody from Lucky Luciano and the Rosenbergs to the Lonely Hearts Killers and Albert Fish—all but Lucky rode Old Sparky, the facility’s famed electric chair.

  Today the quietness was eerie and the only movement was the figure of a guard surveying the area from a medieval turret silhouetted against the gray sky. For a second you could see the rifle he cradled in his arms.

  Pat left his Crown Vic in a visitor’s slot in the hillside parking lot. “Been a long time since I’ve been here,” he said.

  “Have any trouble clearing me for this visit?”

  “No problem getting you inside,” Pat said, flashing a smile. “Let’s see if they let you back out.”

  Two uniformed guards were walking toward us, neatly in step.

  I asked Pat, “Why do we rate such first-class treatment?”

  “They just want to make sure there aren’t any reporters with us.”

  That seemed a reasonable precaution. I figured attorney Rufus Tomlin only put up with this interview with his client for PR purposes, and was surprised a press phalanx wasn’t waiting.

  I asked, “Wouldn’t the Champion of the Underdog like it better if this meeting were made public?”

  “Apparently not,” Pat said. “He’s holding onto the bad publicity card to help him get a fatter out-of-court settlement.”

  We had our IDs ready and Pa
t handed over a letter of authorization from the District Attorney’s office. Everything was handed back so we could display it all again to other uniformed personnel inside. Pat checked his weapon—I wasn’t carrying—and we both went through the metal detectors and followed a guard to the warden’s office.

  You might expect to meet a big hardcase of a guy, chisel-faced, tight, nasty lines etched along the corners of his mouth to match a bulldog demeanor; callused hands, maybe, from beating on things or people. What you wouldn’t expect was a small, thin man who looked like an accountant, wearing a trimly tailored suit and smiling gently when he got up to shake your hand in the introductory ritual. Even his voice was thin. I had a teacher like that in the fourth grade, and he’d been tougher than he looked.

  But even my tough fourth-grade teacher didn’t own the kind of eyes Warden Percy V. Ladd turned loose on you. They were a strange color with a dark ring around the irises and no matter what his smile said or his small, near-limp handshake indicated, this guy was a bulldog, all right, but with the stealth and striking power of a scorpion.

  The media had always treated Warden Ladd well. Maybe the reporters hadn’t noticed those eyes. Word was, the inmates were scared to death of him. They had noticed.

  Percy V. Ladd had earned the moniker Vlad the Impaler, courtesy of some literary-minded con who knew his Dracula. At least that’s what the cons called him when he couldn’t hear them.

  Pat and I were seated across from the warden, separated by a large, dark oak desk with piles and piles of papers arranged in as orderly a manner as the prisoners on their cell blocks.

  Warden Ladd said, “Rudy Olaf will be in an interview room in ten minutes. We’ll be recording video with an audio tape back up, and we’ll provide copies. Two guards will be at your disposal, both of whom can stay inside with you if you wish.”

  “I prefer they stay outside,” Pat told him. “I don’t want anything to distract your inmate.”

  “Oh, he’ll be no problem, Captain.”

  “Never had any trouble with him?”

  “Never. You know, Olaf’s been here almost twice as long as I have… and I’ve been behind this desk for twenty-one years. He was already a trustee working in the library. One of the best-behaved and most trusted prisoners in the history of this facility.”

  I said, “Is he still working in the library?”

  “Yes. We have a civilian employee who is technically head librarian, but the truth is, Rudolph Olaf has been running the library for decades.” An embarrassed smile flickered. “This may sound strange, but… we’re going to hate to lose him.”

  Pat said, “We understand Olaf was inside at the time that Dennis Reist was here—the witness whose testimony put him behind bars. That means Olaf was inside when Reist was knifed and killed in a shower.”

  But the little warden was already shaking his head. “That was before my time, but I can assure you that the two prisoners were kept quite apart. They were not on the same cell block, and Olaf was in the library when Reist was killed.”

  I said, “You don’t know this from experience, but from the records.”

  “The records can be trusted, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Could Olaf have engineered the killing?”

  The warden paused, and his answer ducked the question: “He has demonstrated no signs of violence in forty years. If it’s true that he was wrongly convicted, I’d have to say that society has been denied an individual who might have made a positive contribution. Did you know he has an IQ over 180, Captain Chambers?”

  “I didn’t,” Pat admitted.

  “Don’t take that to mean that I assume Olaf is innocent. These confessors come out of the woodwork, don’t they, from time to time. And there are individuals who fit in well within the regimented lifestyle of a prison but who cannot function properly on the outside.”

  I said, “So model prisoner or not, Olaf might be guilty in your view?”

  “Mr. Hammer, Rudy Olaf is a very clever man. You asked if he might have… engineered the death of that witness against him. It seems far-fetched, but here’s a fact that you may find suggestive—for the last thirty years, Olaf has been the president of the prison chess club. He has taught many, many of his fellow prisoners how to play that demanding game.”

  I nodded. “You’re implying that a man that smart might find a pawn to shiv somebody in the shower.”

  “I said nothing of the kind. But you are free to form your own conclusion.”

  Pat asked, “How about visitors?”

  The warden had a folder ready for him with two typed sheets in it. “Rudy Olaf had one guest, never anyone else. This visitor came once a week, the maximum allowed number of visits, and on holidays. Speaking of chess, they invariably played the game while they spoke.” He handed the sheets across to Pat. “That visitor’s name was Henry Brogan, as you can see.”

  I asked, “Another pawn?”

  The warden smiled the thin smile again and shrugged.

  Pat, sitting forward, asked, “You ever monitor their conversations, Warden?”

  “On occasions. Sort of a random screening. We don’t see the necessity for doing it more often, and even if we did, we lack the manpower.”

  I said, “Well, these days you could monitor every one of these conversations electronically, and check the tapes later.”

  “We have seventeen-hundred prisoners, Mr. Hammer, and they have tens of thousands of visitors a year. That would be a lot of tapes to go through, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Pat asked, “What about gifts?”

  The warden bobbed his head and folded his arms across his chest. “Always the same—Brogan brought along two cartons of cigarettes each visit. Olaf is a chain smoker and every cent he’s earned in the library here goes for butts.”

  I asked, “Does Olaf earn enough here to support a habit like that?”

  “Undoubtedly. There was nothing else he wanted. He isn’t into drugs or booze like a lot of the other lifers.”

  Pat asked, “How available is that kind of contraband, Warden?”

  I watched the warden’s eyes. They didn’t waver from Pat’s and without any hesitation or embarrassment he said, “In any prison this size, Captain, there are guards who profit from running black-market operations. Some cons can get their hands on money and buy whatever they want.”

  “Not unusual.”

  The warden’s eyebrows went up and down. “They even have businesses of their own on the premises, peddling dope and booze. I let it ride to keep down the violence, but let it get out of hand and I will crack down like a shark on bloody bait. There will be no insurrections in this prison as long as I’m here and they damn well know it.”

  Neither of us bothered to belabor the point.

  I asked, “Has there been any change in the prisoner’s status in the last year or so?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Health problems, maybe. A drop-off in the quality of his library work. Or maybe a new cellmate.”

  The warden narrowed his eyes. “That’s impressive, Mr. Hammer. Olaf lost his longtime cellmate just last year. As a trustee, he’s now in a smaller cell, but by himself—it’s a rare privilege.”

  I followed up: “When you say ‘lost’ his cellmate, do you mean the guy was released?”

  “No. Olaf’s cellmate died of a heart attack, a lifer who’d been inside for thirty-some years—killed two men.” The warden hesitated, then went ahead: “Specifically, the cellmate was in for killing his lover and another man.”

  I frowned. “Did I hear that right?”

  “Yes, the cellmate was a homosexual who had killed his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s, uh…”

  “New boyfriend,” I said. “How long did Olaf and this guy share a cell?”

  “Twenty-seven years. He and Olaf were… a couple.”

  So a little booze and dope action wasn’t all the tough warden put up with to keep the lid on the prison.

  “Cellmates is right,” Pat said.

&n
bsp; The warden’s chuckle had little humor in it. “Yes, an old married couple, really. Olaf was very depressed about the death, at first. But he sprang back eventually… maybe six months ago.”

  Pat and I exchanged troubled glances. That Olaf had been in a homosexual relationship with his cellmate was an indication that he indeed may have been innocent, considering the Bowery Bum slayer targeted gays.

  The warden asked, “Anything else I can tell you, gentlemen?”

  “No, thank you, Warden,” Pat said.

  “Then let me ask a question,” Ladd said, directly to Pat.

  “What’s that?”

  “How the hell did you get Mike Hammer cleared to be part of an official D.A.’s office investigation?”

  I grinned enough so he could see the edges of my teeth. The muscles in my jaw had tightened and I met the challenge in his eyes, and then he backed down.

  “Sorry,” he said. “None of my business.”

  “That’s all right, Warden.”

  Pat began, “Mike…”

  “The D.A. requested that I be here. Interesting touch, don’t you think? Maybe it’s because I put as many sons of bitches inside these walls as any five NYPD cops combined.”

  The warden raised a conciliatory palm and said, “Perhaps I owe you a debt of thanks, Mr. Hammer, for helping keep us in business.”

  “No problem.”

  But those eyes were watching me, his gaze like soft tendrils reaching out, looking for an opening that could be used later to inject a venomous needle.

  “Funny, though,” he said, his tone suspiciously light, “how many times I’ve heard from law enforcement and prisoners alike that someday I might find you within these walls. Just not as a temporary guest.”

  Then Vlad the Impaler looked up at the guard at the door and said, “We’ll escort you to the interrogation room now.”

  We both said thanks and followed our chaperone out; Pat and I exchanged amused smiles once our backs were to him. Behind us, though, I knew the warden was smiling a shrewd smile of his own, and not bothering to hide it at all.

  * * *

  Rudy Olaf, in prison green, was sitting very primly in the highly polished antique wooden chair, a tall, almost skeletal figure with a gray pallor and eyes of a washed-out light blue, like the knees of worn-out jeans. His face was a narrow oval with deep lines on either side of his mouth, his forehead well-grooved, his gray hair longish for an inmate. Trustees did have privileges, after all.