Bronx Noir

The two men drove back to their precinct to start the reporting on the case. Before dawn, both had made phone calls. DiRaimo called for the warrant to speak to the McElhones and search the car, the garage, and anywhere else Tim McElhone might have disposed of the clothes and shoes he had worn that night. Hamilton had gone out of the precinct for some fresh air and during his walk had used a pay phone to make calls too private for the precinct.

A few hours later, the detectives rolled up in their unmarked car behind Ray as he was walking down the street. He had been on his way to see Yolanda, but then thought it would be better to just walk past her building. Couldn’t think of a good reason to be on that block, but then he tried to remind himself that he didn’t need a reason to be anywhere in the entire world. He was a free man.

“Raymundo,” Detective Hamilton called out, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Woods?” Ray asked. Playing dumb was a strategy that often worked with detectives.

“Here to see your wife?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’re talking about a murder charge, you idiot. You should know all about that kind of stuff. Had plenty of time to think about it.”

“That’s right, and I did my time. All of it.”

“That’s right, you did. But I’m thinking you might have a fresh murder charge. Yolanda told us everything,” Hamilton said.

Ray looked at both detectives up and down, then pursed his lips. “You guys ain’t said nothing to her.”

“Well, if you’re so sure of that, why don’t you come down and tell us everything you know?”

“About what?”

“About this little girl your wife says was called Jasmine.”

“Don’t know anything about it.”

“So you’re cutting your wife off? Not very heroic of you. How are you ever going to win her back?”

Ray didn’t have an answer for that.

“Uh-huh. I thought so,” Hamilton said. “We’ll be talking to you again. Don’t disappear.”

After letting Ray go on his way, the detectives went to Yolanda’s place, but she wasn’t in. They decided to execute the McElhone warrant.

Everything Detective Hamilton had imagined about the McElhone home was true. There was a gate where they had to be buzzed in, and a long drive up to the front door. The house was huge and could have been featured in an architecture magazine. Tim McElhone, his parents, and his lawyers were waiting for the officers in the formal garden in the back. A servant offered them tea off a silver tray. As Hamilton had predicted, nothing came from the search of the house and garage. The car, the detectives were told, was on loan to a friend for the day. The interview with Tim was almost as fruitless. DiRaimo asked about the person who was supposed to have been with Tim when he allegedly encountered Jasmine the first time.

“Detective,” one of the lawyers jumped in, “as we’ve said before, Tim has never driven into that part of the Bronx and we certainly don’t admit that he even met this…this girl. Your witness is mistaken or lying. There is no reason for Tim to supply you with the names of random friends just in case one might fit the vague description you have. ‘Husky, sweaty, short dark hair.’ Talk about fishing. You found nothing in your search and you’ve had ample time to interview my client. This farce is over. If you have any other questions, please direct them to me or one of my colleagues.”

The detectives were escorted out by the same servant who had shown them in.

“Did you see Timmy sweat?” DiRaimo asked.

“So what?” Hamilton answered. “You’re sweating too.”

“Yeah, but I’m twenty-five years older and a hundred pounds heavier.”

The banter was interrupted by the servant. “Sirs, I hope I am not out of place in saying this, but I think I know the man you were describing.” He went on to give them a name and address just a quarter of a mile down the road. The detectives decided to knock on that door.

This house was smaller and had seen better days. There were no servants answering the door, but the lady of the house was so meek that she could have easily been mistaken for one. The father of Tim’s friend was a lawyer and let the detectives know it. The friend, David Franklin, was also a lawyer, newly minted.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about…Never been in that part of the Bronx…Never been in Tim’s car…Yes, we’re friends…Don’t know any Jasmine or any other prostitutes,” were the highlights of this conversation.

Back in their car and headed for the house of the friend who had borrowed Tim’s vehicle, DiRaimo made another observation.

“Did you see that boy’s hands shaking?”

“Yeah, that was a little strange,” Hamilton agreed.

“You like him for this?”

“I’d like anyone if we could find the smallest piece of evidence,” Hamilton answered.

Tim’s car proved elusive. The girl it had been loaned to had gathered a couple of friends and taken it to an upstate lake for the day. It was nearing night when the detectives and the local police were able to find the car and lift fingerprints from both the outside and inside.