By Robert K. Tanenbaum
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He had been a hot detective too, once, him and Sturdevant. He shook his head violently. A silly thing, but he always did it when the image from the hallway on Lewis Avenue came into his mind. It was down to a couple of times a week now. It would pop into his head, a scene lasting little over a minute that turned his whole life into shit. The booze helped. Maybe it would kill enough brain cells after a while, maybe the very cells that stored the memory: he didn’t know, but he was willing to try.
His eyes were like lumps of burnt coal. He shook his head. Sirens sounded in the distance. Winofski looked startled and became even more nervous when, after a few minutes, they could see flashing red and blue lights as what appeared to be a motorcade swung into the alley. Shortly thereafter, there were three more cars parked at different angles around the crime scene with a large white van from one of the TV stations disgorging cameras and mike booms and a blow-dried reporter. E. bus. A. named Thelmann, and Detective Lieutenant Brian McKelway, who was Harry Bello’s watch commander.
It wasn’t empty enough. They got a place behind the cab where the guy sleeps. Did you check that? No, what am I, crazy? ” He gunned the car into a wide U-turn and shot off west in pursuit of the tractor. “Maybe … shit, maybe he didn’t see nothin’,” said Joey. Carmine did not consider this comment worthy of reply. Patrolman William Winofski, of the 105th precinct, cruising his radio motor patrol car down Braddock Road in Queens Village in the calm center of the graveyard shift, was entirely justified in expecting that nothing would trouble his working life.
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