There were some low murmurings. The speech continued, but no one was really listening anymore. Up on the scoreboard a message went up, “President Nixon resigns.” Over the PA, an announcer confirmed what they had all listened to, “President Nixon has announced his intention to resign effective noon tomorrow.” There was a smattering of applause. Not much more than the smattering when the Pirates tied the game up.
The game slipped by, the crowd in a sort of sleepy haze. The ballplayers took a couple of innings before they got back into the swing. No matter where you fell on the political spectrum, it was a time of shame, so why was Sam smiling? It was a strange feeling sitting there not caring, except for the abhorrent glee that engulfed him while everyone around seemed to be deep in thought. What does this mean? What happens now? As far as Sam was concerned all that was going to happen was they were getting a new president tomorrow. So what? He would still have to go sit at his desk tomorrow and go through the motions of caring about doing the job he had once been so good at.
In the bottom of the ninth inning Richie Zisk hit a home run with one out to win the game for the Pirates. Even Grace was subdued. It was after ten o’clock. They headed out of the city through the Fort Pitt Tunnel as Sam drove Grace home. When he stopped in front of the house, Grace didn’t get out right away.
“You could come in for a little bit,” Grace said finally.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“If you would just talk to her, maybe things would be better.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me sweetie. She has made that perfectly clear.” He could see the tears in Grace’s eyes. His own filled up with them as well. Grace got out of the car and entered the house. Sam Lucas sat there for a second looking at the house hoping that she would at least come to the window so that he could see her, maybe just to wave, but she didn’t.
CHAPTER 3
August 9, 1974
When Sam arrived at work the next day people were pocketed together in their little cliques. He sat at his desk and looked over some reports on a homicide that took place last week in the Hill District. The declining situation in the Hill saddened Sam. He spent some beautiful nights up there at the Crawford Grill. Lorraine was the music aficionado of the family. Sam didn’t know jazz from rock and roll. Once upon a time he preferred classical music, but now listened almost exclusively to jazz.
Trying to keep his attention on work was a monumental task. His thoughts drifted to those nights inside the Crawford Grill listening to Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Stanley Turrentine, George Benson and of course the great Walt Harper. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes and let the music flood him to block out the loud conversation from every corner of the room. Everyone argued that they knew Nixon was nothing but a lying crook. Is there any more waste of energy than arguing with someone who is in complete agreement? The problem is that Nixon wasn’t a lying crook as much as he was paranoid, just a scared kid who was afraid he wasn’t going to get picked for a game of baseball, which isn’t much better than a lying crook when you’re the leader of the free world.
Sam looked down at his paperwork trying to concentrate. He knew who the perp was but had to wait for the evidence to mount. After a five-hour interrogation last week, Sam had to cut the guy loose. Sometimes he wished his old partner, Jimmy Dugan, was still around for his brand of interrogation. Sam never had the stomach for it and his interrogations tended to end without a confession. Sam relied on evidence while others still managed to get their confessions. He worked primarily alone now. No one wanted to work with him, and he preferred it that way. His numbers were still good enough, just not as good as previously and not as good as most of the other detectives. Sam used to think that Jimmy’s numbers were better because of him, but perhaps Sam’s numbers were better because Jimmy wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. In the end, despite and because he was a rat bastard, he got results. Sam thought about the last time he had seen Jimmy. The Chalkboard Murders were all wrapped up. It was a bad time for everyone involved. How could anyone do that to another living thing? Sam thought about his family. He just wanted to see them, talk to them, but Grace was the only one of them who would even give him the time of day. Too much water under the bridge.
“Lucas,” shouted Captain Paulson. Paulson had taken over from Jack Ballant when Ballant got promoted to Chief of Police back in 1971 when Greg Falcone became mayor. “Come in here.”
No one even noticed Paulson’s bellowing. Sam got up, moved through the throngs of babbling police officers and into Paulson’s office. The office always smelled of salami and cheese. Not a totally unpleasant smell in the cool days of autumn, but in the heat of August, it slapped Sam’s face like a dead fish. Despite the current cool spell, it was still awful. Sam sat down in a wooden chair across the desk from Paulson and waited. The captain read through some papers on his desk.
“What’s going on with the dead darkie on the hill?” Paulson asked without looking up.
“Just waiting on the fingerprints to come back, but we know who the perp is. It is only a matter of time.”
“No confession?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?
“I guess he didn’t feel like it.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Sam,” Paulson said finally looking up. “Your numbers aren’t exactly blowing me away.”
“It takes me a little longer, but I get there more often than not.”
“I don’t care if it takes you longer. It is the more often than not that bugs me. You used to be the best homicide detective in the city. Nothing got by you. You were a god when I first entered the force. I looked up to you. You should be sitting at this desk, not me. But you just don’t give a damn, just like no one cares about a dead darkie.”
Sam grimaced with his continued use of the term darkie and Paulson noticed.
“I really don’t give a damn if you don’t like my choice of words. The fact remains no one cares. What they do care about is if a pretty white girl gets shot in Oakland.”
“There was no evidence in that case to tie Ruppert to that girl’s death.”
“And yet I’m getting heat because we seem to have just let it go.”
“I can’t create a case out of thin air.”
“Then you create a confession.” Paulson slammed his fists on his desk.
“I don’t work that way and you damn well know it.”
“I know. That’s why I gave it to Brent, and he got the confession while Nixon was resigning last night.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. Ten hours in a locked room with Brent and I had my confession.”
“That confession is like toilet paper without any evidence tying him to the crime scene.”
“Yeah, but the D.A. is off my back, because he has someone to crucify in the press.”
“He’ll never get a conviction.”
“Who cares? He’ll get convicted in the papers and that’s all that matters to anyone. If he gets acquitted, then it will be a travesty of justice not a lack of dedication by this department. That’s what you never understood.”