The nose of the car swerved toward him, the car accelerating. Too late Judd realized the car was deliberately trying to run him down.
The last thing he remembered was something hard smashing against his chest, and a loud crash that sounded like thunder. The dark street suddenly lit up with bright Roman candles that seemed to explode in his head. In that split second of illumination, Judd suddenly knew the answer to everything. He knew why John Hanson and Carol Roberts had been murdered. He felt a sense of wild elation. He had to tell McGreavy. Then the light faded, and there was only the silence of the wet darkness.
From the outside, the Nineteenth Police Precinct looked like an ancient, weatherbeaten four-story school building: brown brick, plaster facade, and cornices white with the droppings of generations of pigeons. The Nineteenth Precinct was responsible for the area of Manhattan from Fifty-ninth Street to Eighty-sixth Street, from Fifth Avenue to the East River.
The call from the hospital reporting the hit-and-run accident came through the police switchboard a few minutes after ten and was transferred to the Detective Bureau. The Nineteenth Precinct was having a busy night. Because of the weather, there had been a heavy increase in rapes and muggings. The deserted streets had become a frozen wasteland where marauders preyed on the hapless stragglers who wandered into their territory.
Most of the detectives were out on squeals, and the Detective Bureau was deserted except for Detective Frank Angeli and a sergeant, who was interrogating an arson suspect.
When the phone rang, Angeli answered. It was a nurse who had a hit-and-run patient at the city hospital. The patient was asking for Lieutenant McGreavy. McGreavy had gone to the Hall of Records. When she gave Angeli the name of the patient, he told the nurse that he would be right over.
Angeli was hanging up the receiver as McGreavy walked in. Angeli quickly told him about the call. “We’d better get right over to the hospital,” Angeli said.
“He’ll keep. First I want to talk to the captain of the precinct where that accident occurred.”
Angeli watched as McGreavy dialed the number. He wondered whether Captain Bertelli had told McGreavy about his conversation with Angeli. It had been short and to the point.
“Lieutenant McGreavy is a good cop,” Angeli had said, “but I think he’s influenced by what happened five years ago.”
Captain Bertelli had given him a long, cold stare. “Are you accusing him of framing Dr. Stevens?”
“I’m not accusing him of anything, Captain. I just thought you should be aware of the situation.”
“Okay, I’m aware of it.” And the meeting was over.
McGreavy’s phone conversation took three minutes while McGreavy grunted and made notes and Angeli impatiently paced back and forth. Ten minutes later the two detectives were in a squad car on the way to the hospital.
Judd’s room was on the sixth floor at the end of a long, dreary corridor that had the sickly-sweet smell of all hospitals. The nurse who had phoned was escorting them to Judd’s room.
“What shape is he in, Nurse?” asked McGreavy.
“The doctor will have to tell you that,” she said primly. And then continued, compulsively. “It’s a miracle the man wasn’t killed. He has a possible concussion, some bruised ribs, and an injured left arm.”
“Is he conscious?” asked Angeli.
“Yes. We’re having a terrible time keeping him in bed.” She turned to McGreavy. “He keeps saying he has to see you.”
They walked into the room. There were six beds in the room, all occupied. The nurse indicated a bed at the far corner that was curtained off, and McGreavy and Angeli walked over to it and stepped behind the curtain.
Judd was in bed, propped up. His face was pale and there was a large adhesive plaster on his forehead. His left arm was in a sling.
McGreavy spoke. “I hear you had an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” said
The last thing he remembered was something hard smashing against his chest, and a loud crash that sounded like thunder. The dark street suddenly lit up with bright Roman candles that seemed to explode in his head. In that split second of illumination, Judd suddenly knew the answer to everything. He knew why John Hanson and Carol Roberts had been murdered. He felt a sense of wild elation. He had to tell McGreavy. Then the light faded, and there was only the silence of the wet darkness.
From the outside, the Nineteenth Police Precinct looked like an ancient, weatherbeaten four-story school building: brown brick, plaster facade, and cornices white with the droppings of generations of pigeons. The Nineteenth Precinct was responsible for the area of Manhattan from Fifty-ninth Street to Eighty-sixth Street, from Fifth Avenue to the East River.
The call from the hospital reporting the hit-and-run accident came through the police switchboard a few minutes after ten and was transferred to the Detective Bureau. The Nineteenth Precinct was having a busy night. Because of the weather, there had been a heavy increase in rapes and muggings. The deserted streets had become a frozen wasteland where marauders preyed on the hapless stragglers who wandered into their territory.
Most of the detectives were out on squeals, and the Detective Bureau was deserted except for Detective Frank Angeli and a sergeant, who was interrogating an arson suspect.
When the phone rang, Angeli answered. It was a nurse who had a hit-and-run patient at the city hospital. The patient was asking for Lieutenant McGreavy. McGreavy had gone to the Hall of Records. When she gave Angeli the name of the patient, he told the nurse that he would be right over.
Angeli was hanging up the receiver as McGreavy walked in. Angeli quickly told him about the call. “We’d better get right over to the hospital,” Angeli said.
“He’ll keep. First I want to talk to the captain of the precinct where that accident occurred.”
Angeli watched as McGreavy dialed the number. He wondered whether Captain Bertelli had told McGreavy about his conversation with Angeli. It had been short and to the point.
“Lieutenant McGreavy is a good cop,” Angeli had said, “but I think he’s influenced by what happened five years ago.”
Captain Bertelli had given him a long, cold stare. “Are you accusing him of framing Dr. Stevens?”
“I’m not accusing him of anything, Captain. I just thought you should be aware of the situation.”
“Okay, I’m aware of it.” And the meeting was over.
McGreavy’s phone conversation took three minutes while McGreavy grunted and made notes and Angeli impatiently paced back and forth. Ten minutes later the two detectives were in a squad car on the way to the hospital.
Judd’s room was on the sixth floor at the end of a long, dreary corridor that had the sickly-sweet smell of all hospitals. The nurse who had phoned was escorting them to Judd’s room.
“What shape is he in, Nurse?” asked McGreavy.
“The doctor will have to tell you that,” she said primly. And then continued, compulsively. “It’s a miracle the man wasn’t killed. He has a possible concussion, some bruised ribs, and an injured left arm.”
“Is he conscious?” asked Angeli.
“Yes. We’re having a terrible time keeping him in bed.” She turned to McGreavy. “He keeps saying he has to see you.”
They walked into the room. There were six beds in the room, all occupied. The nurse indicated a bed at the far corner that was curtained off, and McGreavy and Angeli walked over to it and stepped behind the curtain.
Judd was in bed, propped up. His face was pale and there was a large adhesive plaster on his forehead. His left arm was in a sling.
McGreavy spoke. “I hear you had an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” said
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