final report from his doctor. He had a terminal cancer, and was about to go into the final stage. At best, he had about three months to live, and it was going to be a rough downhill ride all the way. He'd wanted to know the truth and the doctor pulled no punches—each day the pain would be worse and there was no way they could stop it."
I knew where Pat was headed.
He went on: "When the doctor confirmed what Doolan suspected, he went home and began putting his affairs in order. Got his will out of a lockbox and laid it out on his desk. His granddaughter gets most everything—the beach house, his insurance, and two fairly expensive paintings he'd bought years ago."
"Doolan buying paintings?"
"Don't laugh, Mike. Their value had gone up many times since their purchase."
"Who else was on his list?"
"The Patrolmen's Benevolent Association and a small bequest to an old buddy in a nursing home in Albany. From his desk, he called a cemetery on the Island and bought a short plot out there, and left a note to that effect attached to the will. It was dated the same day he died."
"Typed?"
"No. It was in his own handwriting and signed. No doubt about it being authentic."
"He did this on the day he died. And he left no other note?"
"No, Mike. But he shot himself, all right."
"Shot himself. And suicide isn't the right word?"
"Let's say it was deliberate self-destruction. Self-administered euthanasia." His shrug conveyed sorrow. "He was cutting out while he still had control."
Knowing old Doolan the way I did, it was hard to accept, yet on the surface that sounded reasonable enough. When a guy hits eighty, a dirty death is something he sure wouldn't want. Still...
Doolan?
Damn.
"How'd he do it, Pat?"
"With his own .38 revolver. He shot himself in the heart."
I looked up at him quizzically. "Old cops usually swallow the muzzle, pal."
"There are exceptions. He was one."
"You checked his hands."
"Sure. Doc did a paraffin test on him right there. He fired the gun, all right. Powder and flash burns right on his shirt. No unusual angle to the bullet entry. It would be easy enough to do. We even have a time for the shot. A little old lady heard it. She didn't know what it was at first, but got pretty damn suspicious. Her window opened right onto the air shaft from Doolan's, and she knew he was an old-timer cop."
"She the one who called in?"
"Uh-huh. And she placed the time right on the nose. The M.E. had an easy case on this one."
"How long had Doolan been dead before a car got there?"
"Maybe fifteen minutes." Pat knew what I was going to ask next and beat me to it: "The door was locked. First cops on the scene kicked it open."
"What about the street? Anybody see or hear anything?"
"Nothing. At ten-thirty at night, it's pretty quiet around there. Not like it's crawling with potential witnesses."
"There's a news vendor on the corner."
"I know. And he'd closed down a half hour before."
I shut my eyes and let it run through my mind. Finally I said, "Any doubts, Pat?"
He shook his head. "I wish there were."
"It just doesn't sound like old Doolan," I insisted.
"Mike ... it is
old
Doolan we're talking about. Not the fireball we knew back in the early days. Not the guy that mentored us both, right after the war. When you get up there in years, hell, you change.
He
changed. You know that."
How could I argue about that? Hadn't I got older, and changed?
But I did argue: "No," I said flatly, "I don't
know
that. I admit the logic is there, Pat. But it still doesn't sit right."
"Hell, man. Cut me a goddamn break. I put
everybody
on it—we blitzed every angle we could before the day was out. Any real enemies Doolan had died a hell of a long time ago. He wasn't involved with any police matters, his circle of friends was small and of long duration. He was well-liked in the neighborhood, occasionally took part in civic affairs..."
"Like how?"
"Attended meetings when it concerned neighborhood problems or renovation. Things like
I knew where Pat was headed.
He went on: "When the doctor confirmed what Doolan suspected, he went home and began putting his affairs in order. Got his will out of a lockbox and laid it out on his desk. His granddaughter gets most everything—the beach house, his insurance, and two fairly expensive paintings he'd bought years ago."
"Doolan buying paintings?"
"Don't laugh, Mike. Their value had gone up many times since their purchase."
"Who else was on his list?"
"The Patrolmen's Benevolent Association and a small bequest to an old buddy in a nursing home in Albany. From his desk, he called a cemetery on the Island and bought a short plot out there, and left a note to that effect attached to the will. It was dated the same day he died."
"Typed?"
"No. It was in his own handwriting and signed. No doubt about it being authentic."
"He did this on the day he died. And he left no other note?"
"No, Mike. But he shot himself, all right."
"Shot himself. And suicide isn't the right word?"
"Let's say it was deliberate self-destruction. Self-administered euthanasia." His shrug conveyed sorrow. "He was cutting out while he still had control."
Knowing old Doolan the way I did, it was hard to accept, yet on the surface that sounded reasonable enough. When a guy hits eighty, a dirty death is something he sure wouldn't want. Still...
Doolan?
Damn.
"How'd he do it, Pat?"
"With his own .38 revolver. He shot himself in the heart."
I looked up at him quizzically. "Old cops usually swallow the muzzle, pal."
"There are exceptions. He was one."
"You checked his hands."
"Sure. Doc did a paraffin test on him right there. He fired the gun, all right. Powder and flash burns right on his shirt. No unusual angle to the bullet entry. It would be easy enough to do. We even have a time for the shot. A little old lady heard it. She didn't know what it was at first, but got pretty damn suspicious. Her window opened right onto the air shaft from Doolan's, and she knew he was an old-timer cop."
"She the one who called in?"
"Uh-huh. And she placed the time right on the nose. The M.E. had an easy case on this one."
"How long had Doolan been dead before a car got there?"
"Maybe fifteen minutes." Pat knew what I was going to ask next and beat me to it: "The door was locked. First cops on the scene kicked it open."
"What about the street? Anybody see or hear anything?"
"Nothing. At ten-thirty at night, it's pretty quiet around there. Not like it's crawling with potential witnesses."
"There's a news vendor on the corner."
"I know. And he'd closed down a half hour before."
I shut my eyes and let it run through my mind. Finally I said, "Any doubts, Pat?"
He shook his head. "I wish there were."
"It just doesn't sound like old Doolan," I insisted.
"Mike ... it is
old
Doolan we're talking about. Not the fireball we knew back in the early days. Not the guy that mentored us both, right after the war. When you get up there in years, hell, you change.
He
changed. You know that."
How could I argue about that? Hadn't I got older, and changed?
But I did argue: "No," I said flatly, "I don't
know
that. I admit the logic is there, Pat. But it still doesn't sit right."
"Hell, man. Cut me a goddamn break. I put
everybody
on it—we blitzed every angle we could before the day was out. Any real enemies Doolan had died a hell of a long time ago. He wasn't involved with any police matters, his circle of friends was small and of long duration. He was well-liked in the neighborhood, occasionally took part in civic affairs..."
"Like how?"
"Attended meetings when it concerned neighborhood problems or renovation. Things like
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