by Ed McBain
Father Courter was taken to the nearest hospital, on Harrington and Cole, where he was treated for cuts and bruises on his face before he was released. He told Lieutenant George Kagouris of the Transit Authority Police that he’d been heading downtown to visit with friends and fellow priests in the neighborhood where he’d grown up. He told the lieutenant that there’d been only twenty dollars in the wallet. He told the lieutenant that the medal and rosary beads had no real monetary value. He told the lieutenant that before his attackers ran off, the one who’d first greeted him turned with a grin and shouted, “April Fool, Father!”
THE WOMAN’S NAMEwas Rebecca Bright, and she told Kling immediately that her younger brother had been a little odd even when he was a kid, and she wasn’t surprised that he’d been doing graffiti or that he’d got himself killed for it.
The detectives at Midtown South—where Henry Bright’s body had been found on the sidewalk outside the bookshop, the shards of the shattered plate-glass window all around him—had called Kling early this morning with an FMU request. Operations Division had informed them that detectives Parker and Kling were currently investigating the uptown murders of the three previous graffiti writers, and since this seemed obviously related, it was a clear case of First Man Up, and should be turned over to the Eight-Seven, not that Midtown South was trying to shirk its responsibilities.
Kling wanted to know why they considered this a clear case of FMU, not thathe was trying to shirkhis responsibilities, but copycatting was not an unknown phenomenon in this city. For example, had they recovered anybullets at the scene? This was a trick question. There’d been no bullets or cartridge cases recovered at the scenes of any of the three previous murders. But to Kling’s great surprise, the detective calling from M.S. said, “Yeah, we did, matter of fact, but that’s not why we’re turning this over to you. Weknow you didn’t find nothing previous.”
“What’d you find?”
“Three bullets inside the front window. Guy must’ve missed the victim first few times he fired. Anyway, the slugs went through the plate glass, and we recovered them.”
“That still doesn’t add up to…”
“We also got a note.”
“Awhat ?”
“Thistime he pinned a note to the body.”
“Anote ?”
“Got it right here in my hand. Nice handwritten note. What it says is, ‘I killed the three uptown.’ Now doesthat sound like FMU, or does it?”
Kling was thinking the guy wanted to get caught, leaving a handwritten note. Only the ones who wanted to get caught left notes. Except the Deaf Man.He left notes because hedidn’t want to get caught.
Rebecca Bright was a singularly plain woman, some thirty years old, Kling guessed, sitting in a small office at the travel agency for which she worked. Posters of Italy and Spain covered the walls behind her. Kling wondered what it was like in Italy or Spain.
“Did you know your brother was writing graffiti?”
“No,” she said. “But, as I told you, I’m not surprised.”
“Scratchinggraffiti, actually,” Kling said. “A section of the broken window had his initials on it. Scratched into the glass. AnH , anyway, and part of aB . He was killed before he could finish the tag.”
“The what?”
“The tag. The marker. That’s what these writers call them. The graffiti writers.”
“I see.”
“Did you know any of your brother’s friends?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t know if any of them were writers then?”
“No. You meangraffiti writers, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“Far as I knew, Henry worked in the produce department of a supermarket. I had no idea what he was doing at night. Scratching his name on windows, you now tell me. Or his friends, either.”
“Never met any of them, is that right?”
“Never. Henry and I didn’t see much of each other. Henry was a pain in the ass, if you’ll pardon my French. I didn’t like him when he was a kid, and I liked him less when he grew up.If you can call a twenty-two-year-old who scratches his name on windows agrown-up. ”
“But you didn’t know he was doing that.”
“That’s right. I would have liked him evenless if I’d known.”
“Would you recognize the handwriting on this note?” Kling asked, and showed her a photocopy of the note M.S. had turned over to him.
Rebecca studied it.
“No,” she said. “Isthat who killed my brother? The one I’ve been reading about in the papers?”
“It’s a possibility,” Kling said.
“He’s got to be crazy, don’t you think? Though, I’ll tell you the truth…”
Kling waited.
“Sometimes I feel like killing them myself.”
NO ONE KNEWwhy brawling, boisterous Calm’s Point was called that. Perhaps at one time, when the British were still there, it had indeed been a peaceful pastoral place. Nowadays, the name carried with it a touch of irony bordering on sarcasm: Calm’s Point was the noisiest section of the sprawling city, and the spin its residents put on the English language was the cause of derision, amusement, and gross imitation everywhere else in the United States. Ask a native of Calm’s Point where he came from, and be would proudly and unerringly tell you “Carm’s Pernt.”
The officers who answered the radio call had been told only to investigate a complaint of “loud music” coming from apartment 42 at 2116 Nightingale Avenue in a largely Colombian section of Calm’s Point. They could hear the music blasting the moment they entered the building. They were experienced cops; it was with a sense of foreboding that they climbed the steps to the fourth floor. They knocked. They knocked again, using their batons this time. They yelled “Police!” over the blare of the Spanish music coming from inside the apartment. They banged on the door again. Then they kicked it in.
A man later identified as Escamilio Riomonte was lying on the floor with a bullet hole in the back of his head.
A woman later identified as Anita Riomonte, his wife, was found lying beside him, a bullet hole in the back of her head.
A four-month-old baby later identified as their daughter, Jewel, was found alive in her crib.
Neighbors told the responding officers that the couple sold heroin from the apartment and that the motive was probably robbery. It was later established that each of the victims had been shot once in the back of the head with a .25 caliber semiautomatic handgun. Sergeant Charles Culligan of the Six-Three Precinct remarked, “Whoever did it, looks like they done it before.”
The child was removed to the Riverhead Municipal Hospital Center where it was concluded that she’d spent at least twenty-four hours in that crib before the officers discovered her. Her temperature upon admission to the hospital was recorded as a hundred and five degrees. The moment she began hyperventilating, she was moved to an intensive-care unit. Although the shooting had taken place the day before, Jewel died at 12:34P .M. that April Fools’ Day.
THE NEWSPAPER ADSlast weekend had listed the name of the promoter as Windows Entertainment. It had also listed the names of the groups that would be performing in Grover Park this coming weekend. The Deaf Man chose one of the lesser-known groups—heguessed it was lesser known because its name was in smaller type than some of the others—and then placed his call to Windows.
“Hello,” he said to the woman who answered the phone, “this is Sonny Sanson, I’m handling the arrangements for Spit Shine? For the gig this weekend?”
“Yes, Mr. Samson, how…?”
“Sanson,” he said. “S-A-N-S.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sanson, how can I help you?”
“My people are worried about the laminates.”
“Worried?”
“When and where do we pick them up?”
“Oh. Just a moment, please, I’ll put you through to our security division.”
The Deaf Man waited. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to anyone in the se
curity division. In the corporate world, it was always best to deal with lower-level twerps because twerps always wanted to make themselves seem important even if they had to give away the store to create the impression. Someone in Security might…
“Hello?” a voice said.
“This is Sonny Sanson,” the Deaf Man said. “Who am I speaking to, please?”
“Ronnie Hemmler.”
“Mr. Hemmler, I’m handling the arrangements here in the city for Spit Shine? For the weekend gig? My people are wondering about the laminates. Would you know what the plans are?”
“Plans for what?” Hemmler asked.
Note of suspicion in his voice, not for nothing was he a Security person.
“For picking them up. My people are getting nervous.”
“What people?”
“Spit Shine?” the Deaf Man said patiently. “The group?”
“Yeah?”
“We want to pick up our laminates.”
“Didn’t you get anything in the mail on this?”
“Not yet.”
“Something went out on this last week.”
“From you?”
“No, no, it would’ve come from Artco.”
“Artco? Is that another company?”
“No, it’s a department here. Artists Coordination. They’re in charge of things like that.”
“Who do I talk to there?”
“Just a second,” Hemmler said.
The Deaf Man waited.
When Hemmler came back on, he said, “Sonny?”
He hated it when people who didn’t know him called him by his first name—even if it wasn’t hisreal name.
“Yes?” he said, not having to feign irritation this time.
“You can try Larry Palmer up there, I’ll give you his extension number.”
“Can’t you just switch me?”
“I’ll try, but it doesn’t always work. Let me give you the extension in case you get cut off.”
“Thank you,” the Deaf Man said.
Hemmler gave him the extension number and said, “Now hang on.”
The Deaf Man listened while Hemmler told the operator to transfer the call to three-nine-four, and then he waited again, certain he would be disconnected and surprised when a woman’s voice said, “Artco.”
“Larry Palmer, please,” he said.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Sonny Sanson. Ronnie Hemmler in Security asked me to call.”
“Just one moment, please.”
He waited again.
“Larry Palmer.”
The Deaf Man went through the whole drill yet another time. Palmer listened patiently.
“So what is it you want to know?” he asked.
“We haven’t got our laminates yet. My people…”
“You’ll get those at the site. You managing Spit Shine?”
“No, I’m just smoothing the way for them while they’re here.”
“Well, when they get to the park…they’ll want to do a sound check, I guess, make sure everything’s the way they want it…”
“Oh, sure.”
“So just have your road manager stop in the trailer, let them know who he wants around the act. In the stage area, you know? How many people he wants there. They’ll give him the laminates he needs.”
“What trailer would that be?” the Deaf Man asked.
“The production trailer,” Palmer said, sounding somewhat surprised. “On the site. Windows’ll have a stage manager in there.”
“Who do we talk to if the stage manager’s out to lunch?” he asked, smiling, keeping his tone light.
“Well, there’ll be a secretary in the trailer, two or three assistants, you know how these things work.”
“Sure. What’s a good time to stop by?”
“Once they start setting up, they’ll be going day and night.”
“When will that be?”
“Listen, don’t youknow all this?”
“There was a foul-up,” the Deaf Man said.
“What kind of foul-up?”
“Long story,” he said. “Istill don’t know when we’ll be setting up, or when we can do our sound checks, or…”
“Well, the unions’ll be loading in at six tomorrow morning, but you won’t want to pick up your laminates then, there’ll be a mob scene at the trailer. You won’t need them till your act gets there, anyway, so what’s the hurry?”
“No hurry at all,” the Deaf Man said. “Thanks a lot.”
“No sweat, Sonny,” Palmer said, and hung up.
IN RIVERHEADearly that afternoon…
The name Riverhead came from the Dutch, though not directly. The land up there had once been owned by a patroon named Ryerhurt, and it had been called Ryerhurt’s Farms, which eventually became abbreviated and bastardized to Riverhead. Over the years, this section of the city had been inhabited sequentially by Jews, Italians, blacks, Puerto Ricans, and—most recently—Koreans, Colombians, and Dominicans. If ever there was a melting pot, Riverhead was it. The only trouble was that the melting pot had never come to a boil.
In Riverhead early that afternoon, two young men crouched behind the stairs in the ground floor hallway of the parole office on Edgerley Avenue, whispering in their native tongue about April Fools’ Day. In Colombia, April Fools’ Day was calledel día de engañabobos , and whoever was made a fool of on this day was calledun inocente. Today, the two young men planned to make a fool of a parole officer named Allen Maguire. The way they planned to do this was to kill him.
In this city, killing someone wasn’t such a big deal. In the first quarter of the year, for example, five hundred and forty-six murders were committed, which might have sounded like a lot when you compared it to the mere fifty blankets stolen from DSS TEMPLE in three months last year, but all it really came to was a scant nine murders a day, not bad when you considered all the guns out there. Sixty-one percent of all the murders in this city were committed by firearms, but that was no reason to take guns away from people, was it? After all, ineight percent of this city’s murders, feet or fists were the weapons, but did anybody suggestamputation as a means of control? Of course not.
The two men planning to kill the parole officer did not plan to use their fists or their feet. They were both armed with Intratec nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistols capable of laying down a barrage of fire at the rate of five or six rounds a second. The Intratecs were part of the April Fools’ Day joke. The two Colombians had been hired by a Riverhead drug dealer named Flavio (Fat Boy) Garcia, who’d been convicted two months ago for a parole violation, namely for having in his possession a firearm, namely an Intratec nine. Maguire was the person who’d brought the parole violation charges after Garcia’s arrest, and now Fat Boy was languishing upstate in a delightful little cell at Castle-view Penitentiary, from which he’d ordered the two Colombians to “seriously injure” the parole officer. They took this to mean kill him.
They had not been instructed to kill him on April Fools’ Day, however, nor had they been instructed to use Intratecs on him, but they both felt that since an Intratec had been the instrument of Garcia’s embarrassment, it should now be the instrument of his revenge. They were quite looking forward to doing the parole officer, not the least because Garcia had promised to give both of them promotions if they succeeded in carrying out his instructions. At the moment, they were both clockers, who were low-level people who sold cocaine on street corners. A clocker in the drug world was somewhat higher in status than a toy in the world of graffiti writers. Manuel and Marco planned to change their status within the next twenty minutes.
It only took fifteen.
At precisely seven minutes past two that afternoon, Allen Maguire came back from lunch and stepped into the building on Edgerley, only to see two young men step from behind the staircase with pistols in their hands. He turned to run, but he was too late. One of them yelled,“Inocente! Inocente!” and then both of them opened fire. Maguire was dead twenty time
s over when they stepped over his bleeding body, giggling, and ran out of the building into the rain.
THE MAN WHO STOPPEDat the 87th Precinct’s muster desk at two-thirty that afternoon said he wanted to talk to the detectives investigating the Wilkins case. Sergeant Murchison took his name, called upstairs, told Kling who was here, and then asked the man to go up to the detective division on the second floor, he’d see the signs.
The man introduced himself as David Wilkins.
“Peter was my brother,” he said.
Thirty-four, thirty-five years old, Kling guessed. Brown eyes, reddish hair, reddish mustache. Slender and fit-looking; Kling supposed he exercised regularly. He was sporting a tan, in fact. Had he just come back from a vacation in the sun someplace?
“The reason I’m here,” Wilkins said, “is I went to Surrogate’s Court this morning to see what it said in my brother’s will, and they told me a will hadn’t been filed.”
“Yes?” Kling said.
“I feel certain there’s a will.”
“Yes?”
“So why hasn’t it been filed yet?”
“Well, it sometimes takes a while to get papers to court,” Kling said. “Two, three months sometimes. It’s still early to be…”
“I think I’min that will,” Wilkins said. “I thinkthat’s why it hasn’t been filed yet.”
“What makes you think you’re in it?”
“Little things my brother said. Hints. We were very close.”
Kling wanted to ask him if he’d known his brother was a closet graffiti writer. Those twenty-two cans of paint in the closet still bothered him. Debra Wilkins as surprised to see them as the detectives were. No idea her husband was hoarding paint for his nocturnal forays.
“I think Debraknows I’m in the will, and is trying to hide it from me,” Wilkins said.
“Have youasked her if you’re in it?”
“We don’t speak to each other.”