Gladyss of the Hunt by Arthur Nersesian Page A

terrified him into talking. Later, another, more cooperative suspect who worked in the food stamp office on Fourteenth Street made the mistake of shrugging at one of Bernie’s questions. Bernie pulled him out of his chair and tossed him against the wall of his office in front of his co-workers. When he found a third suspect sitting in a McDonalds on Sixth Avenue, Bernie ordered him to freeze. The fella, a swarthy middle-aged ex-con, fell to the floor of the fast-food dive where he held a perfect downward facing dog.
    â€œI didn’t say hit the deck!” Bernie barked. “Back up here!”
    â€œWhat kind of yoga do you practice?” I asked the man as Bernie patted him down.
    â€œPrison yoga,” he answered politely. “It drains off all the tweaks and twitches.”
    Bernie gave me a nasty look. You weren’t supposed to fraternize with the enemy.
    That afternoon, we walked into a rundown SRO and tracked down one geriatric suspect who genuinely did belong in a small cage. According to his record, he had viciously murdered three different women over a period of sixty odd years; each time he’d gone to prison only to serve his sentence and then be given another chance. Somehow he had been paroled a third time. At eighty-five the ex-con was barely able to cough out a “fuck off,” but Bernie was just as tough on him, waving his hand in his face as he questioned him, inches from hitting the old bird. The entire time the wrinkled prick just scowled at me.
    â€œMaybe I resemble his last cellmate,” I kidded as we left his hovel.
    â€œAfter a lifetime in prison,” Bernie said, “he’s learned to hate anyone he thinks is weaker than him. And fear anyone stronger than him.”
    Over the course of the following week, I wondered if Bernie’s life lessons weren’t much different. At the precinct, he was always trading on his presumed power. He would only let me see parts of a file, like an M.E’s autopsy report, if I joined him for lunch. He’d let me read some useless witness statements only after I brought him a cup of coffee.
    I finally lost it. “Tell you what! I’ll toss you a donut if you tell me why the maid at the Templeton said she saw you with the victim before she was murdered.”
    â€œWow,” he responded. “I’m impressed that you sat on that for this long. Let’s see, it’s probably because I interviewed Nelly Linquist at the hotel a few weeks earlier. I knew I’d seen that fucking maid somewhere.”
    â€œShit, you interviewed the victim?”
    â€œFor another case, yeah. Crime is a small world filled with the same cast of sad characters. A witness to one murder advances to being a victim in another. It’s a strange promotion in this miserable career, you’ll see.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you mention this before?”
    â€œWho the hell are you? Some fucking shoofly?” That was a cop who worked in Internal Affairs, investigating other cops.
    â€œLook, I’m just trying to learn how this job is done. And you won’t even let me see autopsy photos. If you think you’re protecting me . . .”
    â€œIt’s not you I’m protecting,” he said and let loose a sigh. “Seeing dead bodies never bothered me till I worked down at World Trade. When someone found someone in the rubble, everyone wanted a look. After so many years in homicide . . . I don’t know, I just felt like this was the last courtesy I could afford them.”
    â€œBut how am I expected to ever solve a case if…”
    â€œYou’re not gonna solve shit!” he shouted. “You’re just a blonde kid who flirted with me so I picked you as bait for a killer. Is that clear enough for you?”
    â€œFuck you!” I yelled back and stormed off.
    I worked with Annie for the rest of the day, while Alex, who was fairly thick-skinned, teamed up with Bernie. Annie assured me that