Read Online Investigation by Dorothy Uhnak - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy Uhnak
Tags: USA
Ads: Link
of the earth, and when his usefulness is over, any cop would throw him to the wolves without a blink. Which is not exactly the cute relationship of the television-series Homicide Squad hero who sleuths out solutions week after week, using ten bucks’ worth of information and a head full of clever ideas. And who feels an off-the-cuff affection for his “snitch” and vows to revenge his death, should he get caught by his fellow hoods.
I worked Homicide for four years and was promoted from second to first grade, which meant my salary was at captain’s level, same as Tim’s. Of course, I could always be dumped all the way back to patrolman. Tim, with his civil-service rating, could never be lower than captain and had a wide-open future into the upper-echelon appointive ranks. Once his political friends were in position to help.
On the wall space between the two windows behind Tim’s desk were mementos of his graduation from the sixteen-week-long F.B.I. training session which Tim had attended in Washington, D.C., in 1969. There was a two-foot-square replica of the F.B.I. official insignia, all blue and gold with white lettering: DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE at the top of a circle; FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION at the bottom of the circle. Inside the circle, a badgelike emblem, the top half gold with a blue scale, showing, I guess, the quality of justice, the bottom half striped red and white like a peppermint stick. Beneath the badge was a sort of unfurling ribbon divided into three sections, proclaiming FIDELITY—BRAVERY—INTEGRITY.
Centered beneath this was an expensively framed photograph of Tim Neary having his hand shaken by J. Edgar Hoover. Tim’s face was wooden, his eyes riveted on the somewhat pop-eyes that seemed to look right through him.
Tim had confided to me, years ago, after a couple of drinks too many, that there seemed to be something a little “strange” about the Director. (That’s what you called him if and when you talked about him at all: the Director.)
Tim told me how he and other graduates of the F.B.I. training session had been rehearsed for the graduation ceremony to the point where every man in the room, regardless of his age, rank, experience and professional position, was reduced to a dry-mouthed nervous little kid afraid to so much as blink or swallow when in the Presence. Not to mention the emotional condition of the F.B.I. instructors responsible for their training and their successful completion of the prescribed course. They had been rehearsed as to the precise number and length—in inches—of the steps to take when approaching the Director for presentation of the diploma; the exact distance to maintain between them; how far to extend the left hand for the diploma and the right hand for the handshake. Which had been, Tim confided, warm, moist, loose and heavy. They had been told to say nothing more or less than “Thank you, Mr. Director”; to release the handshake immediately, drop the eyes respectfully, turn and noiselessly return to their assigned seats. There was to be no coughing, throat-clearing, whispering, slouching; there were to be no crossed legs; feet were to remain motionless, neatly aligned, whether standing or sitting. No excess movement of any kind in the room, including blinking or facial twitching.
The Director did not care for any of the above behavior.
Today, everyone and his publisher is telling “strange” J. Edgar Hoover stories, making accusations and telling jokes right on television, but this was in 1969. Tim came over to my house at six the next morning after our little drinking session, woke me up, held my arm in a killing grasp and made me swear to God, on the foundation of old friendship, that I would forget that he had ever mentioned anything at all about the Director. Of course I swore, and we never mentioned the matter again.
There wasn’t much that Tim’s wife could do with the color of the walls in Tim’s office. As squad commander, he rated
I worked Homicide for four years and was promoted from second to first grade, which meant my salary was at captain’s level, same as Tim’s. Of course, I could always be dumped all the way back to patrolman. Tim, with his civil-service rating, could never be lower than captain and had a wide-open future into the upper-echelon appointive ranks. Once his political friends were in position to help.
On the wall space between the two windows behind Tim’s desk were mementos of his graduation from the sixteen-week-long F.B.I. training session which Tim had attended in Washington, D.C., in 1969. There was a two-foot-square replica of the F.B.I. official insignia, all blue and gold with white lettering: DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE at the top of a circle; FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION at the bottom of the circle. Inside the circle, a badgelike emblem, the top half gold with a blue scale, showing, I guess, the quality of justice, the bottom half striped red and white like a peppermint stick. Beneath the badge was a sort of unfurling ribbon divided into three sections, proclaiming FIDELITY—BRAVERY—INTEGRITY.
Centered beneath this was an expensively framed photograph of Tim Neary having his hand shaken by J. Edgar Hoover. Tim’s face was wooden, his eyes riveted on the somewhat pop-eyes that seemed to look right through him.
Tim had confided to me, years ago, after a couple of drinks too many, that there seemed to be something a little “strange” about the Director. (That’s what you called him if and when you talked about him at all: the Director.)
Tim told me how he and other graduates of the F.B.I. training session had been rehearsed for the graduation ceremony to the point where every man in the room, regardless of his age, rank, experience and professional position, was reduced to a dry-mouthed nervous little kid afraid to so much as blink or swallow when in the Presence. Not to mention the emotional condition of the F.B.I. instructors responsible for their training and their successful completion of the prescribed course. They had been rehearsed as to the precise number and length—in inches—of the steps to take when approaching the Director for presentation of the diploma; the exact distance to maintain between them; how far to extend the left hand for the diploma and the right hand for the handshake. Which had been, Tim confided, warm, moist, loose and heavy. They had been told to say nothing more or less than “Thank you, Mr. Director”; to release the handshake immediately, drop the eyes respectfully, turn and noiselessly return to their assigned seats. There was to be no coughing, throat-clearing, whispering, slouching; there were to be no crossed legs; feet were to remain motionless, neatly aligned, whether standing or sitting. No excess movement of any kind in the room, including blinking or facial twitching.
The Director did not care for any of the above behavior.
Today, everyone and his publisher is telling “strange” J. Edgar Hoover stories, making accusations and telling jokes right on television, but this was in 1969. Tim came over to my house at six the next morning after our little drinking session, woke me up, held my arm in a killing grasp and made me swear to God, on the foundation of old friendship, that I would forget that he had ever mentioned anything at all about the Director. Of course I swore, and we never mentioned the matter again.
There wasn’t much that Tim’s wife could do with the color of the walls in Tim’s office. As squad commander, he rated
Similar Books
