4. The 9th Precinct
At the Greenwich Village Precinct station on Charles Street the three of them sat on a scarred wooden bench in the drab waiting area. A short time later Fran and Ed were called in; invited politely to sit before two serious detectives. The questioning was uncharged, simple, and brief. How long had they known Sandy? “We met him for the first time this summer.” Had they had any contact with Sandy in town “No.” The detectives wanted a list of his friends. “The only ones we know were up in New Hampshire at the Chase. We just met him there this summer.” The officers thanked them. They could leave.
As they made their way to the door Fran told the officers about Harriet; that they she had arrived with them because she did not want to come alone, that she was sitting outside. What transpired after that was chilling.
One of the detectives, escorting them to the door, looked out at Harriet seated on the wooden bench. Murmuring a second thanks to Fran and Ed, he closed the door behind them. They rejoined Harriet. Responding to her questions Fran said “they’re kind of nice. They’re obviously looking for connections, but we couldn't be very helpful.”
They waited. Minutes passed, a lapse sufficient to trigger mild anxiety -- a hint that that the wheels might be coming off. Ed said ”I’ll bet they’re hunting for Harriet’s name on their list. Imagine what a monkey wrench that throws in their timetable.” Finally one of the detectives opened the door. He called to Harriet “Come in miss.” When she was inside Fran said “He sounded a little mad, didn’t he?” Ed agreed.
They sat and waited. They had agreed to stop for coffee locally once they were all out of the police station. The clock ticked off minutes, an hour; an hour and a half. Fran and Ed studied the crowd passing through the area, occasionally rising to stretch. They were bewildered by the length of her interview. Harriet, after all, knew Sandy about as well as they did. The three of them had met him for the first time during the summer at the Chase. Did she know more about him than they did?
Considering Harriet’s reluctance to come alone and apparent fear, they hated to leave her behind. But they were expecting dinner guests. And Harriet did live nearby, in the Village, within walking distance. They, on the other hand, faced a subway ride back to Brooklyn. Ed finally screwed up courage enough to tap on the detectives' door. Cracking it open, one of the officers peered out. A curt, impatient “Yes!” Ed craned his neck, trying to see Harriet, but couldn’t. He said “I don't know whether she told you, but we’re waiting for Harriet. We were wondering about how long it will be.” Ed felt almost physically propelled backward by the response. “We’re not done yet buddy. [No more Sir] No telling. It depends on her but I think she’ll be here a while. You’d better take off.” He closed the door in Ed’s face.
Neither Ed nor Fran were inclined to argue with authority. Recently the mere rear view of a squad car’s blinking light behind them had fluttered their hearts. They waited nervously another half hour. Harriet remained inside. They left.
They phoned Harriet as soon as they got home, then every hour or so until midnight. Not answer. They phoned mutual friends. No one had heard from her. They couldn't imagine what to do, perhaps call the police station, but to say what? Finally they went uneasily to bed.
The next morning Harriet picked up the phone. She was crying. “Unbelievable” was the word they used from then on to describe her night. Fran and Ed were not innocents, but pot, communism, night clubs, the gay scene, the artistic crowd were distant landscapes to them. They weren't judgmental, just uninvolved. Sandy’s murder and Harriet’s experience left them more informed, less innocent.
The police’s step-by-step treatment of Harriet was both ugly and bizarrely algebraic. They had apparently concluded Sandy’s death was in some way related to homosexual sex gone awry. There were, everyone knew, many gay individuals in the village. Harriet, like the murdered Sandy, lived in the village. And, as it emerged during her questioning, the police believed people like her were either homosexuals or knew a lot of them. Therefore she must be able to identify a suspect.
And that Harriet had arrived unsummoned to the station also apparently raised suspicions. She must know things about Sandy she wasn't sharing with them. They travelled this path for some time, barking different versions of the same question. What did she know that she wasn't saying? Harriet had responded truthfully. She knew nothing. Ultimately, they changed tactic. She must know gay people in her apartment house. Did she? Harriet, still in a state of shock, told Fran and Ed she didn't remember exactly how she had responded. But that she must have admitted she knew some gay people. Because the police demanded names. Harriet clearly remembered this part of the interrogation. She had refused. The more they insisted the more she resisted. Her sense of justice, the indignity of it all, overpowered her fear and timidity. She was rock solid; persistently refusing to answer. She was certain the people she knew had nothing to do with Sandy's death.
At this point the interrogation turned even uglier. If she didn't respond, they would arrest her, put her in a cell. She couldn't believe they could do that. She was wrong. At about eleven that evening she was locked in a cell, alone, crying until there were no tears left. They left her behind bars until early in the morning, someone returning occasionally to ask her whether she had changed her mind. Was she ready to identify the gay people she knew? Harriet was shy. But she was strong. She was resolute. She was determined. The more they asked, the more determined she became not to surrender. Finally they opened the cell and told her to leave.
Ed looked up. The doors of the uptown express remained open. Waking from his reverie, he was he had missed his station and was at the end of the line. The curtain came down once again on Sandy’s murder and Harriet’s torment as he crossed to the downtown side to wait a train back to 225th Street. Although he had toyed with the signs and symbols, he knew full well Sandy’s death had not augered anything like Fran’s impending demise. There was no explanation for that impending blow, certainly no mystical connections. But how disallusioning that the police he had always respected as New York's finest could have subjected Harriet to such treatment. The single positive was that her experience had woken Fran and him to some of the prejudices and mistreatment the gay community endured.
Sandy’s murder had not been solved.
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