"Bowes, Richard - From The Files Of The Time Rangers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bowes Richard)

KID COP BUTCHERED

Under it is a picture of a bareheaded cadet in a police academy uniform. "A handsome young woman, Mirabel Gonzalez. You saw how the Times headline tied her death in with Olney's? By tomorrow they'll be writing about the Switchyard Massacre. TV may be there before then."

On the southwest corner of Thirty-Third and Ninth is a parking lot. It's empty today of all but official vehicles and a line of official gawkers at the chain link fence along its back side. New York 1 scans the twenty-foot drop and the dozen sets of railway tracks. Just below that fence, Cadet Gonzalez's mutilated corpse was discovered in time for last night's news.

Robert and Jax look down on cops combing the area inside the yellow crime scene tape, on an Eyewitness News reporter interviewing a Deputy Inspector. The Jersey Transit train they just saw in the yards emerges from the tunnel under Tenth Avenue. It glows silver in the dull light before disappearing beneath the old Main Post Office building.

Robert stares at the wall on the far side of the railway cut. Jax follows his gaze. On the dark gray stone is a faded graffiti, a spiral. A later, brighter red X is spray-painted over it.

"Logue." A large, red-faced cop as big as Jax walks their way. "My favorite TV detective."

"Lieutenant Crawford. One of my favorite detectives in any medium," says Robert.

"You need to get down there?" asks the cop. Robert Logue shakes his head. "Any ideas about the corkscrew on the wall?"

"A reminder of an older and less orderly New York," says Robert.

"You ever meet her?" Crawford jerks his head toward the murder site.

"Briefly. She was Olney's friend. Right now, I need to talk with Jax."


2.
A few minutes later, Robert and Jax are in a booth at the diner across the street, sipping Greek coffee. Jax drinks it straight. Robert has spiked his cup from a flask. The TV is on with the sound off. Cadet Gonzalez's face appears, then the railway tracks.

Robert stares out the window at a bunch of teens just sprung from school. Uniform ties are off, white shirttails hang out. Blazers are draped over their shoulders, skirts are hiked high, pants are rolled up to the knees. All their faces are painted with tiger stripes.

"War paint. The latest fashion trend," Jax says.

"That stuff washes off," says Robert. "They have to be scrubbed and back in uniform tomorrow morning. Tattoos and body piercing are illegal for kids. Not like when you grew up and anything went. I was their age circa 1960 and I kind of sympathize."

He produces a manila envelope and spreads New York Post clippings on the table. They show Brian Olney as a bright kid in a high school graduation photo, wearing a tuxedo at a brother's wedding, in a Police Academy uniform, in a body bag being carried off a West Side pier a few weeks earlier.

On top of these, Robert places a police photo of a corpse lying in the glare of lights. Three bullet holes are drilled in Olney's chest. His clothes are gone except for a blood-saturated T-shirt pulled over his head. It conceals the missing eyes. Invisible, unless one knows it's there, is the tiny spiral tattoo over the right bicep.

"A kid starved for adventure. A pre-med at NYU who went out of his way to audit a Buried New York course I gave at the New School last fall. Halfway through the semester, he disappears. At finals time he shows up in a police cadet uniform. Looking like the hero of a Boy's Own Adventure book."

Robert brings out an old police photo taken in the train yards. In the background is a baggage car and a signal light. In the foreground are the white of bare arms and legs, the black of the back of a head, of empty sockets. One victim is facedown. Another's mouth is open to the sky. Like she was killed in mid-scream.

Next is a shot dated 2/6/63. It shows a newsstand with the full array of seven New York City dailies. Even the Times features the murders.

"In those days, all the news did not get printed," says Robert. "But everyone in the city had a hot rumor or clever theory about what had happened. The NYPD went crazy, hauled every ex-con and current pervert in the Greater New York area in for questioning. They couldn't raise a lead. The Feds got called in. If they found out anything, they weren't telling.

"Fortunately for everyone's reputations, that fall Kennedy died in Dallas, made the Massacre look almost quaint. But we're in quiet, peaceful times. Again. The public is ready to be thrilled and horrified. The tabloids are champing at the bit for serial killers. The NYPD doesn't want a repeat of 1963. Getting caught between the Post and the FBI is real painful."

Robert drains his cup. "The only worthwhile thing to come out of the Olney murder was the possible sex-crime angle. That got you assigned to the case. Now, with Gonzalez dead, Crawford and company want to lean on me. It means they have no worthwhile leads. I have a couple of angles I'm working on. But if you want answers, you have to lay off. I'm a consultant, not a suspect."