by Ed McBain
“I put a note on your typewriter,” Genero said.
“Thanks,” Carella said, and pulled the note from the roller. It told him that Grossman had called. Grossman was spelled “Grosman.” Carella was about to call him back when Byrnes came out of his office and told him about Underhill, and the attempted assault, and the dog bite. Carella said, “Okay, good,” and filled him in on the safety deposit box and the court order, and then turned his name plaque to the wall on the Duty Chart, and went downstairs again to where the dog was dripping spit all over the backseat. He tried to remember the dog’s name, but couldn’t. Nobody’s perfect.
The manager of the First Federal on Yates Avenue was a black man named Samuel Hobbs. He welcomed Carella into his office, shook hands with him, and then studied the court order with a solemnity befitting a command for a royal beheading. Carella extended the Mosler key to him. Hobbs pressed a button on the base of his phone. A black girl in her early twenties came into the office, and Hobbs asked her to locate the box number of James Randolph Harris and then escort Detective Carella to the vault and open the box for him. Carella followed her. She had long slender legs and a twitchy behind. She found the number of the box in a card file, and then led him into the vault. She smiled at him a lot; he was beginning to think he was devastating.
She opened the box drawer and pulled out the box. She asked him if he wanted a room. He said he wanted a room, and she carried the box to a cubicle with a louvered door, which he locked behind him. There was a pair of scissors on the wall-hung desktop, for the convenience of those customers clipping coupons. He lifted the lid of the box. There was only one thing in the box, a carbon copy of a typewritten letter. He looked at the letter. It was addressed to Major John Francis Tataglia at Fort Lee, Virginia. The letter was dated November sixth. It read:
November 6th
Hello, Major Tataglia:
I have decided that I want some money for my eyes. I was at the reunion of D Company in August, and I learned there that every one of the grunts is as pisspoor as me, so there’s no sense asking them for any help. I talked to Captain Anderson who used to command the 1st Platoon, and he told me you’re a major now stationed at Port Lee, which is where I’m writing to you. Major, I want some money from you. I want some money for my eyes. I want one thousand dollars a month from you, for the rest of my life, or I am going to write to the Army and tell them what happened to Lieutenant Blake. I am going to tell them you and the others killed Lieutenant Blake. I don’t give a shit about you or any of them. The others can’t help me cause they’re as broke as I am, but you are a career officer and you can send me money, Major. I want the money right away, Major. I am going to give you till the end of the month, and if the first check for one thousand dollars isn’t here by then, I will call the United States Army and tell them what happened during Ala Moana. You may think I can’t prove nothing, Major, but that doesn’t matter. I am a blind veteran with a full disability pension, and, Major, I don’t have to tell you what kind of heavy shit can come down on you if an army investigation starts about what happened that day. You were the one stuck the first bayonet in him, Major, and if they call the other men they are going to have to say you did it all by yourself, or else they are going to have to admit they were all a part of it. None of them is in the Army no more, only you. You are in trouble, Major, if you don’t send me the money. There is a copy of this letter, so if anything happens to me my wife will know about it, and you will be in even more serious trouble than you already are. So send me a check for one thousand dollars by the first of December, and keep sending me checks on the first day of each month or your ass will be in a sling. Send the checks made payable to James R. Harris, and send them to me at 3415 South 7th Street, Isola.
I will not wait past December 1.
Your old Army buddy,
James R. Harris.
This time Carella’s warrant was a bit more specific. It read:
I am a detective of the Police Department assigned to the 87th Detective Squad.
I have information based upon my personal knowledge and belief and facts disclosed to me by the medical examiner that three murders have been committed, and that all of the victims were blind.
I have further information based upon my personal knowledge and belief and facts disclosed to me by Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, commanding officer of the 87th Detective Squad, that an assault was attempted against a blind man on the night of November 22, and that during the attempted assault the perpetrator was bitten by the victim’s dog.
I have further information based upon my personal knowledge and belief that the attempted assault upon the blind man falls into that category of crimes known as “Unusual Crimes,” and there is probable cause to believe that it is linked with the three homicides, each similarly falling into the “Unusual Crimes” category, and each occurring within a brief time span, starting with the first murder on Thursday night, November 18, and culminating with the attempted assault on Monday night, November 22.
I have further information based upon my personal knowledge and belief that one of the victims, James R. Harris, wrote an extortion letter to his former commanding officer, John Francis Tataglia, and that this letter was written on November 6, and that it demanded monthly payments of one thousand dollars for the remainder of the life of James R. Harris to keep him from divulging the information that Tataglia in concert with others killed Lieutenant Roger Blake on the third day of December ten years ago during an army operation called Ala Moana.
Based upon the foregoing reliable information and upon my personal knowledge, there is probable cause to believe that a dog bite on the person of John Francis Tataglia would constitute evidence in the crime of attempted assault and possibly in the crime of murder. Wherefore, I respectfully request that the court issue a warrant in the form annexed hereto, authorizing a search of the person of Major John Francis Tataglia for a dog-bite wound. No previous application in this matter has been made in this or any other court or to any other judge, justice, or magistrate.
The magistrate to whom Carella presented his application was the same one he’d asked for permission to open the Harris safety deposit box. He read the application carefully, and then signed the search warrant attached to it.
The sentry at the main gate would not let Carella through.
Carella showed him the warrant, and the sentry said he would have to check it with the provost marshal. He dialed a number and told somebody there was a detective here with a search warrant, and then he handed the phone to Carella and said, “The colonel wants to talk to you.”
Carella took the phone. “Hello,” he said.
“Yes, this is Colonel Humphries, what’s the problem?”
“No problem, sir,” Carella said. “I’ve got a court order here, and your man won’t let me through the gate.”
“What kind of court order?”
“To search the person of Major John Francis Tataglia.”
“What for?”
“A dog bite, sir.”
“Why?”
“He’s a murder suspect,” Carella said.
“Put the sentry on,” the colonel said. Carella handed the phone through the car window to the sentry. The sentry took it, said, “Yes, sir?” and then listened. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir,” he said again, and put the receiver back on its wall hook. “Third building on your right,” he said to Carella. “It’s marked Military Police.”
“Thank you,” Carella said, and drove through the gate. He parked the car in the gravel oval in front of a redbrick building, and then went inside to where a corporal was sitting behind a desk. He asked for Colonel Humphries, and the corporal asked him who should he say was here, and Carella told him who he was, and the corporal buzzed the colonel and announced Carella, and then told him it was the door just ahead, please go right in.
Colonel Humphries was a man in his early fifties, tall and suntanned, with a firm handclasp and a voice that sounded whiskey-seared. He
explained to Carella that he had just spoken to the post commander, who had authorized the body search, provided an Army legal officer and an Army physician were present when the order was executed. Carella understood this completely. The Army was protecting the rights of one of its own.
The five of them assembled in the post dispensary—a lieutenant colonel, who was the appointed legal officer; a major, who was the Army physician; Colonel Humphries, who was the senior military police officer on post; Carella, who was beginning to feel a bit intimidated by all this brass; and Major John Francis Tataglia, who read the court order and then shrugged and said, “I don’t understand.”
“It gives him the authority to search for a dog bite,” the legal officer said. “General Kihlborg’s already approved the search.”
“Would you mind stripping down?” Carella said.
“This is ridiculous,” Tataglia said, but he began disrobing. There were no wounds on either of his arms, but there was a bandage on his left leg, just above the ankle.
“What’s that?” Carella asked.
Standing in his khaki undershorts and tank-top undershirt, Tataglia said, “I cut myself.”
“Would you take off the bandage, please?” Carella said.
“I’m afraid it’ll start bleeding again,” Tataglia said.
“We’ve got a doctor here,” Carella said. “He’ll remove the bandage, if you prefer.”
“I’ll do it myself,” Tataglia said, and slowly unwound the bandage.
“That’s not a cut,” Carella said.
“It’s a cut,” Tataglia said.
“Then what are those perforations?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Those are teeth marks.”
“Are you a doctor?” Tataglia asked.
“No, but anyone can see those are teeth marks.” He turned to the medical officer. “Major,” he said, “are those teeth marks?”
“They could be teeth marks,” the major said. “I would have to examine them more closely.”
“Would you do that, please?” Carella asked.
The major went to a stainless-steel cabinet, opened the top drawer of it, and took out a magnifying glass. “Would you get up on the table here?” he asked. Tataglia climbed onto the table. The doctor adjusted an overhead light so that it illuminated the wound on Tataglia’s leg. He peered through the magnifying glass. “Well,” he said, “the wound could have been caused by the action of canine teeth and cutting molars. I can’t say for sure.”
Carella turned to the legal officer. “Colonel,” he said, “I’d like to take this man into custody for further examination by the medical examiner and for questioning regarding three homicides and an attempted assault.”
“Well, we’re not sure that’s a dog bite,” the legal officer said.
“It’s some kind of an animal bite, that’s for sure,” Carella said.
“That doesn’t make it a dog bite. Your court order specifically authorizes search for a dog bite. Now, if this isn’t a dog bite—”
“Your medical officer said the wound might have been caused—”
“No, I said I couldn’t be sure,” the medical officer said.
“All right, what the hell’s going on here?” Carella asked.
“You want me to release this man from military jurisdiction,” the legal officer said, “and I’m just not—”
“Only pending the outcome of our investigation.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Do I have to get a district attorney out here?” Carella said. “Okay, I’ll call the city and get one out here. Where’s the phone?”
“Take it easy,” Colonel Humphries said.
“Take it easy, shit!” Carella said. “I’ve got a man here who maybe killed three people, and you’re telling me to take it easy? I’m going to arrest this man if I’ve got to get the president on the phone, now how about that? He’s commander in chief of the—”
“Just take it easy,” Humphries said again.
“What’s it going to be?” Carella said.
“Let me talk to the general,” Humphries said.
“Go ahead, talk to him.”
“I’ll be back,” Humphries said, and went into the next room.
Carella could hear the sound of a telephone being dialed. He began pacing. The Army officers looked through the window to the quadrangle beyond, avoiding his eyes. Tataglia had re-bandaged his leg and was putting on his clothes again when Humphries came back into the room.
“The general says it’s okay,” he said.
It wasn’t that easy.
The legal officer went along with Tataglia to protect his rights, as was usual in this country—and which wasn’t so bad when you got right down to it. Because supposing Tataglia wasn’t the man who’d killed Jimmy and Isabel Harris, not to mention Hester Mathieson, huh? Suppose he wasn’t the man who’d attacked old Eugene Maslen and been bitten by his dog Ralph? Suppose he’d been bitten instead by his wife or his pussycat, huh? That was why it was necessary to have Lieutenant-Colonel Anthony Loomis there to make certain the cops of the 87th did not work Tataglia over with rubber hoses—which cops nowadays didn’t do, but which Loomis didn’t know.
When Carella asked that a sample of Tataglia’s blood be taken to compare with the blood that had been found on the sidewalk outside the Mercantile Bank on Cherry and Laird, Lieutenant-Colonel Loomis said he felt this was a violation of Tataglia’s rights. An assistant district attorney named Andrew Stewart was up at the squadroom by then because this looked like real meat and they didn’t want a multiple murderer to get away with murder even if his counsel was a hard-nosed career Army officer who also objected to a medical examiner taking a look at the wound to determine whether or not it was a dog bite. Stewart was a hard-nosed career man who hoped one day to become governor of the state. He had served with the United States Army during one of his nation’s many wars, and he did not like officers and he especially did not like lieutenant-colonels.
“Colonel,” he said, because that’s what lieutenant-colonels were called in the United States Army, “I think I ought to let you in on a few secrets here before you find yourself behind enemy lines without support.” He smiled like a chipmunk when he said this because he thought it was a pretty good metaphor, which in fact it was. “I am going to tell you all about Miranda-Escobedo and the rights of a prisoner. Or rather, since everybody nowadays talks about the rights of prisoners, I am going to tell you about the rights of law-enforcement officers. So pay attention, Colonel—”
“I don’t like your condescending air,” Loomis said.
“Be that as it may,” Stewart said, and smiled his chipmunk smile again. “Let me inform you that a police officer may properly ask a prisoner to submit to a blood or Breathalyzer test, to take his fingerprints or to photograph him, to examine his body, to put him in a lineup, to ask him to put on a hat or a coat, or to pick up coins, or put his finger to his nose, or anything of the sort without warning him first of his privilege against self-incrimination or the right to counsel.”
“That is your interpretation,” Loomis said.
“No, that is the interpretation of the Supreme Court of this land, Colonel. The difference between any of these actions and a statement in response to interrogation is simply the difference between non-testimonial and testimonial responses on the part of the prisoner. The first need not be preceded by the warnings; the second must always be. So, Colonel, whether you like it or not, we’re going to take a sample of Major Tataglia’s blood, and we’re also going to have an assistant ME look at that wound in an attempt to determine whether or not it was inflicted by a dog. Now that’s it, Colonel, and we’re well within our rights, and you can object till hell freezes over, but we’re still going to do it. Is that clear?”
“I am objecting,” Loomis said.
“Fine. And I’m calling the Medical Examiner’s Office to arrange for a man to get here right away.”
The assistant ME arrived some forty minutes later. It was now close to 9:00 P.M. He looked at the wound and said it appeared to be a dog bite. He then asked if the dog was rabid.
“Yes,” Carella said.
The lie came to his lips suddenly and brilliantly. There was nothing in the rules that said you could not lie to an assistant medical examiner, so he instantly embroidered the lie. “The Canine Unit cut off the dog’s head and tested the brain,” he said. “The dog had rabies.”
“Then this man had better be treated right away,” the ME said, and then did an a cappella chorus on this dread disease, explaining that the incubation period might be anywhere from two to twenty-two weeks, after which the major could expect severe pains in the area of the healed wound, followed by headaches, loss of appetite, vomiting, restlessness, apprehension, difficulty swallowing, and eventual convulsion, delirium, coma—and death. He said the word “death” with a finality altogether fitting.
Tataglia remained unperturbed. He had no reason to believe that any of this was prearranged, which indeed it wasn’t. Carella wasn’t the one who’d called the Medical Examiner’s Office, nor had he said a single word to the ME before the man asked if the dog was rabid. The question seemed a natural one, the answer seemed entirely truthful, and the ME’s concern seemed only professional, that of a physician giving medical advice to a man in possible danger. But Tataglia didn’t even blink.
Carella took Stewart aside, and the men held a brief whispered consultation.
“What do you think?” Carella asked.
“I think he’s a cocky little bastard and we can break him.”
“What about the colonel?”
“Loomis doesn’t know his ass from his elbow when it comes to criminal law.”
“Do you want to handle the Q and A?”
“No, you take it. You know more about the case than I do.”
“Shall I show him the letter?”