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Samuels heard Dolan call, “Captain, Captain Samuels for you on Three Six,” and then Captain Robert F. Talley, the Commanding Officer of the Narcotics Bureau, came on the line.
“Hello, Fred. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got some bad news, and a problem, Bob,” Samuels said. “They just found Officer Jerome Kellog’s body in his house. He was shot in the head.”
“Jesus Christ!” Talley said. “Self-inflicted?”
Talley, like most good supervisors, knew a good deal about the personal lives of his men, often more than he would have preferred to know. He knew in the case of Officer Jerome Kellog that he was having trouble, serious trouble, with his wife. And his experience had taught him the unpleasant truth that policemen with problems they could not deal with often ate their revolvers.
“No. Somebody shot him. Twice, from what I hear.”
“Do we know who?”
“No,” Samuels said. “Bob, you know the routine. He lived in my district.”
Talley knew the routine. In the case of an officer killed on the job, the body was taken to a hospital. The Commanding Officer of the District where the dead officer lived drove to his home, informed his wife, or next of kin, that he had been injured, and drove her to the hospital.
By the time they got there, the Commissioner, if he was in the City, or the senior of the Deputy Commissioners, and the Chief Inspector of his branch of the Police Department—and more often than not, the Mayor—would be there. And so would be, if it was at all possible to arrange it, the dead officer’s parish priest, or minister, or rabbi, and if not one of these, then the Departmental Chaplain of the appropriate faith. They would break the news to the widow or next of kin.
“And you can’t find his wife?” Talley asked.
“No. Bob, there’s some unpleasant gossip—”
“All of it probably true,” Talley interrupted.
“You’ve heard it?”
“Yeah. Fred, where are you? In your office?”
“Yeah. Bob, I know that you and Henry Quaire are pretty close—”
Captain Henry Quaire was Commanding Officer of the Homicide Unit.
“I’ll call him, Fred, and get back to you,” Talley said. He broke the connection with his finger, and started to dial a number. Then, sensing Sergeant Dolan’s eyes on him, quickly decided that telling him something of what he knew made more sense than keeping it to himself, and letting Dolan guess. Dolan had a big mouth and a wild imagination.
“They just found Jerry Kellog shot to death in his house,” he said.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Dolan said. “They know who did it?”
“All I know is what I told you,” Talley said. “I’m going to call Captain Quaire and see what I can find out.”
“You heard the talk?” Dolan asked.
“Talk is cheap, Dolan,” Talley said shortly. He walked across the room to his office, closed the door, and dialed a number from memory.
“Homicide, Sergeant Hobbs.”
“Captain Talley, Sergeant. Let me talk to Captain Quaire. His private line is always busy.”
“Sir, the Captain’s tied up at the moment. Maybe I could help you?”
“I know what he’s tied up with, Hobbs. Tell him I need to talk to him.”
“Captain, Chief Lowenstein’s in there with him.”
“Tell him I’d like to talk to him,” Talley repeated.
“Yes, sir. Hang on a minute, please.”
