The Westminster Caper – A Novel
318 – July, 2010
By Dr. Al Grossman
It was mid-January and the Knicks and Nets seasons were going as most recent ones had, in the tank. If it weren’t for the political scandals at the New York Board of Education, there wouldn’t be any headlines at all. It was too early to worry about baseball and the Rangers and Islanders weren’t worth talking about. Snow was falling and traffic as usual was an abomination. The subway workers were again threatening to go on strike. You will notice they always threaten a strike before an important holiday. The coffee machine wouldn’t even belch out stuff that resembled coffee. In short, a typical New York City day.
Our hangout is the second story of the police precinct. It’s an “old” building. While we are called New York’s Finest, our buildings are not. I think the last time I saw a modern Police building was when Robert E. Lee surrendered. What air conditioning there is comes from dilapidated window units and heat comes from old-fashioned radiators. The ceilings are high with room enough for cooling fans, which the budget won’t allow. The floor is linoleum with a pattern that is no longer visible. Since I am senior, I got my choice location of my desk. I chose halfway between the window air conditioning unit and the radiator. It did not turn out to be a wise decision. Too hot and too cold. An unhappy medium.
My name is Clancy Allen and I am a detective 3 stationed at Manhattan South precinct. I have been on the force since the end of Gulf War II. My partner’s name is Israel Dorfman and the boss (Lieutenant) is Abe Finkelstein. My ancestors came from Ireland, England, and Romania. A real United Nations family. Israel’s family tree is somewhat hazy. He wears a skullcap but he is not Jewish. Go figure. The last time I looked in the mirror I almost reached six feet tall with short blond hair and freckles across the bridge of my nose. I have an honorary scar above my right eye that forced the Army to give me the Purple Heart but not a ticket home. I graduated from Columbia and drifted around for a few years. I even worked for a funeral parlor before I chucked it all and volunteered for the Army. After my discharge I took the police exam and wound up here. I have a great singing voice but no one in the squad agrees with me. I get my kicks by singing opera in the shower. My partner, Israel, is a scrawny looking guy, all of 5’7” and weighs just south of 150 pounds. Just don’t misjudge him for he holds a black belt and is one tough SOB. He worked vice for many years. He is a great punster, always telling jokes – many off-key and corny. He has a thing for crossword puzzles and does the New York Times one every day without too much success, except when he cheats.
We’re working on a doozy of a case. We found out that two Russians, just off the boat, decide to give the American Free Enterprise system a try. Everyone in Brighton Beach has told them how rich Donald Trump is so they decided that’s where they would get their starter nest egg. However, from what we can tell, their elevator did not have the ability to go above the third floor. Apparently they figured all they had to do was go up to Trump and stick a gun in his face and have him sign over all his money. It’s true! They figured it worked for the mob in Russia so why not here.
There were a few flaws in their plan however; first they didn’t have a clue where to find the Donald. Second, they didn’t know what he looked like, and third, they had Saturday Night Specials as their only weapons and no escape plan. Other than that everything was all set.
Israel and I were next up on the board when a call came in about a double homicide in front of the Trump Towers and it was only 10:30 in the morning. When we got there we found a horrible traffic jam. Two guys lying on the sidewalk, a Cadillac limo full of holes and a fat guy cowering in the back seat. It turns out his driver/bodyguard is one of the dead guys. The other is one of the Russians. The other one is missing. The blue suits have got the area roped off and one of them, a skinny kid who looks like he just graduated from high school, has his notebook out ready to give me a report. I check his name badge, Jerry O’Brien it says. “So, what’s the story Jerry?” I asked. It looks like these two guys caught the fat guy, whose name is Cliff Elkins, coming out of the building and, according to two witnesses we have, they start yelling for Donald Trump to put his hands up. Instead the asshole makes a beeline for the backseat of the car, a dumb move if I ever saw one. One of the perps starts to shoot at Cliff, then the driver, who’s packing, starts firing as he gets out of the car – not too smart. He gets one of the perps but the other one gets him in the chest. And then gets the hell out of there. One of the witnesses calls 911 on his cell.”
I go to talk to one of the witnesses while Israel heads for the other. My guy is shaking like a leaf and can hardly get out a coherent sentence. After assuring him we had the situation well in hand and he is in no danger, he calms down enough to tell me the missing guy is white, short, and has on a black cap. He was yelling something that sounded Korean and takes off on foot heading uptown. Israel’s guy has to be a drama critic because he gives us a full story and how he would have done it. His perp is real tall, bald and speaks fluent Mandarin. Nothing like eyewitness accounts for accuracy. We checked out the dead guy who fired the shots first and found a Brighton Beach address, a Russian ID card, ten bucks, and a gun in his hand. So I figured Russian/Korean – it’s close.
As Israel and I got together to compare notes, we figure we got nothing useful. It reminded me of the famous Japanese play Rashmonon (I do read sometimes).
It is a story about rape and a killing. And it has four perspectives of the crime told by four people at a trial. No two people reported the same thing. The bandit said he killed the husband; the wife said she killed the husband; the ghost of the husband said he killed himself; and a woodcutter said the husband fell on his own sword by accident. Obviously three people were lying, perhaps all four. The point is that truth is in the eye of the beholder, and no single objective explanation for a human event can ever be found.
This is a bit deep for Israel and he just grunts and says he doesn’t believe in ghosts as we make our way back to the precinct to write up this dastardly deed and seek guidance from our Lieutenant but he has a new joke. Oy vey! He is going to tell it whether I like it or not. “Anyway, a guy walks into a bar while the Knicks game is on and one of the guards is about to take two free throws. ‘I’ll bet you five bucks he makes both of them,’ he shouts to the bartender. ‘You’re on,’ the bartender shouts back. Just like that the guy misses both of them. ‘Here’s your five,’ the guy says. The bartender says, ‘I can’t take your money, I saw the game on the 6:30 news and this is only a replay.’ ‘I saw it too,’ said the guy, ‘but I never thought he could miss them again.’
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