by Ed McBain
They found one thing in the room that was of possible real value.
A feather.
Now, the work they performed in that room may sound very simple and very unstrenuous, especially when all they could turn up was a lousy little feather, a handful of unimportant latents, and a few soleprints, and some hairs, and some blood, and some semen.
Really now! How much work could all that have involved?
Well, a semen stain looks like a geographical map and has the feel of a starched area. Unfortunately, looks alone are not enough for the purposes of identification. The suspected stain had to be packed. It had to be packed so that no friction ensued, because semen stains are brittle and can fracture into tiny, easily lost pieces. Friction could also break the spermatozoa. In other words, the stain could not be rolled, and it could not be folded, and it could not be haphazardly tossed into a bag of old clothes. It had to be packed so that its sides were absolutely free of friction of any sort, and this took time and trouble.
When the suspect stain reached the laboratory, its real examination began.
The first microchemical test it underwent was called the Florence reaction test, wherein a small part of the stain was dissolved in a solution of 1.56 grains of iodide of potassium, 2.54 grams of pure crystalline iodine and 30 cc. of distilled water. The test showed only that there was a probability of semen in the stain. It showed this because brown and rhombic-shaped Florence semen crystals appeared under the microscope. Unfortunately, however, similar crystals could have been obtained with either mucus or saliva, and so the test was not conclusive. But it did admit to a probability, and so the second test was performed, and the second test was the Puranen reaction test.
The Puranen reagent, into which a part of the stain extracted with several drops of saline was placed, consisted of a five-percent solution of 2, 4-dinitro-l-naphthol-7-sulfonic acid, flavianic acid. The stain portion, the saline and the solution were put into a micro tube, and the tube in turn put into a refrigerator for several hours. At the end of that time a yellowish precipitate of spermine flavianate was visible at the bottom of the tube. This precipitate was put under the microscope, and the all-powerful eye revealed crosslike crystals characteristic of seminal fluid.
And then, of course, the further microscopic examination included a search for at least several spermheads— defined by shape and staining—with necks attached. Luckily, the stain had not been changed by either friction or putrefaction. Had it been so altered, the search for the presence of spermatozoa might have been even more time-consuming and less fruitful.
So that's what they did with one stain. It consumed the major part of the day. Nor was it very exciting work. They were not searching for elusive cold germs. They were not seeking the cure for cancer. They were simply trying to compile a list of facts that might lead to the killer of Maria Hernandez or that, at a later date, might help to identify a suspect positively.
And if these men devoted long hours to the death of one junkie, another man was devoting long hours to the life of another junkie.
The junkie happened to be his son.
Peter Byrnes would never know how close he had come to washing his hands of the whole matter. He had fought first with the idea that the entire concept was a hoax. My son a drug addict? he had asked, my son? My son's fingerprints on an alleged murder weapon? No, he had told himself, it is a lie, a complete lie from start to finish. He would seek out this lie, pull it from beneath its rock, force it to crawl into the sunshine where he could step upon it. He would confront his son with the lie, and together they would destroy it.
But he had confronted his son, and he had known even before he asked "Are you a drug addict?" that his son was indeed a drug addict, and that a portion of the lie was not a lie. The knowledge had at once shocked and disgusted him, even though he had somehow expected it. For a lesser man than Byrnes, for a lesser cop than Byrnes, the knowledge might have been less devastating. But Byrnes despised crime, and Byrnes despised punks, and he had learned that his son was a punk engaged in criminal activities. And they had faced each other in their silent living room, and Byrnes had talked logically and sensibly, Byrnes had outlined the entire predicament to his son, never once allowing his disgust to rise into his throat, never once crying out against this punk criminal who was his son, never once saying the words of banishment.
His instinct told him to throw this person out into the street. This was an instinct nurtured over the years, an instinct that was an ingrained part of Byrnes' character.
But there was a deeper instinct, an instinct shared at fires in paleolithic times, when men clasped sons against the night, and the instinct had been passed down through the blood of man, and it coursed through the veins of Peter Byrnes, and Byrnes could think only He is my son.
And so he had talked levelly and calmly, exploding only once or twice, but even then exploding only with impatience and not allowing the disgust to overrule his mind.
His son was an addict.
Irrevocably, irreconcilably, his son was an addict. The caller had not lied on that score.
The second half of the lie turned out to be true, too. Byrnes checked his son's fingerprints against those that had been found on the syringe, and the fingerprints matched. He revealed this information to no one in the department, and the concealment left him feeling guilty and somehow contaminated.
The lie, then, had not been a lie at all.
It had started out as a two-part falsehood, and had turned into a shining, shimmering truth.
But what about the rest? Had Larry argued with Hernandez on the afternoon of the boy's death? And if he had, were not the implications clear? Were not the implications that Larry Byrnes had killed Aníbal Hernandez perfectly clear?
Byrnes could not believe the implications.
His son had turned into something he could not easily understand, something he had perhaps never understood and might never understand—but he knew his son was not a murderer.
And so, on that Thursday, December 21st, he waited for the man to call again, as he had promised; and he bore the additional burden now of a new homicide, the death of Aníbal's sister. He waited all that day, and no call came, and when he went home in the afternoon, it was to a task he dreaded.
He liked a happy home, but there was no joy in his house now. Harriet met him in the hallway, and she took his hat, and then she went into his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder, and he tried to remember the last time she had cried like this, and it seemed very long ago, and he could not remember except that it was somehow attached to a senior prom and a corsage and the insurmountable problems of an eighteen-year-old girl. Harriet wasn't eighteen any more. She had a son who was almost eighteen now, and that son's problem had nothing to do with senior proms or corsages.
"How is he?" Byrnes asked.
"Bad," Harriet said.
"What did Johnny say?"
"He's given him something as a substitute," Harriet answered. "But he's only a doctor, Peter, he said that, he said he's only a doctor and the boy has to want to break the habit. Peter, how did this happen? For God's sake, how did it happen?"
"I don't know," Byrnes said.
"I thought this was for slum kids. I thought it was for kids who came from broken homes, kids who didn't have love. How did it happen to Larry?"
And again, Byrnes said, "I don't know," and within himself he condemned the job that had not left him more time to devote to his only son. But he was too honest to level the entire blame on the job, and he reminded himself that other men had jobs with long hours, irregular hours, and their sons did not become drug addicts. And so he started up the steps to his son's room, walking heavily, suddenly grown old, and beneath his own feelings of guilt ran the pressing undercurrent of his disgust. His son was a junkie. The word blinked like a neon sign in his head: JUNKIE. Junkie. JUNKIE. Junkie.
He knocked on his son's door.
"Larry?"
"Dad? Open this, will you? For Christ's
sake, open it."
Byrnes reached into his pocket and took out his key ring. He had locked Larry into his room only once that he could remember. The boy had broken a plate-glass window with a baseball and then flatly refused to pay for the damage out of his allowance. Byrnes had informed his son that he would then deduct the money from the meals Larry ate, and that all meals would stop as of that moment. He had put the boy in the room and locked the door from the outside, and Larry had capitulated shortly after dinner that night. The incident, at the time, had not seemed terribly important. A form of punishment and really, really now, if Larry had still refused, Byrnes would certainly have fed him. Byrnes had felt, at the time, that he was teaching his son a respect for other people's property as well as a respect for money. But now, looking back, he wondered if he had not behaved wrongly. Had he isolated his son's affection by punishing him in that way? Had his son automatically assumed there was no love for him in this house? Had his son assumed Byrnes was taking the side of the shopkeeper and not that of his own flesh and blood?
But what is a man supposed to do? Consult a psychology textbook before he says anything or does anything? And how many other small incidents were there, how many incidents over the years, how many incidents piling up, inconsequential in themselves, gathering force and power as they accumulated until, together, they conspired to force a boy into drug addiction? How many incidents, and for how many of them could a father be blamed? Was he a bad father? Didn't he truly and honestly love his son, and hadn't he always tried to do what was best for him, hadn't he always tried to raise his son as a decent human being? What is a man supposed to do, what is a man supposed to do?
He unlocked the door, and then stepped into the room.
Larry stood just before the bed, his fists clenched.
"Why am I a prisoner?" he shouted.
"You're not a prisoner," Byrnes said calmly.
"No? Then what is it when the door's locked? What the hell, am I a criminal or something?"
"To be technical, yes, you are."
"Dad, listen, don't play games with me today. I'm not in any goddamn mood to be playing games."
"You were found by a law-enforcement officer to be carrying a hypodermic syringe. That's against the law. That law-enforcement officer also found an eighth of an ounce of heroin in your dresser drawer, and that's against the law. So you are, in effect, a criminal, and I am aiding and abetting you—so shut up, Larry."
"Don't tell me to shut up, Dad. What was that crap your friend gave me?"
"What?"
"Your big friend. Your big-shot doctor friend. He's probably never seen an addict in his whole life. What'd you drag him in for? What makes you think I need him? I told you I could drop the stuff any time I wanted to, didn't I? So what'd you have to call him in for? I hate that son of a bitch."
"He happened to bring you into the world, Larry."
"So what am I supposed to do? Give him a medal or something? He got paid for the delivery, didn't he?"
"He's a friend, Larry."
"Then why'd he tell you to lock me in my room?"
"Because he doesn't want you to leave this house. You're sick."
"Oh, Jesus, I'm sick. I'm sick, all right. I'm sick of everybody's attitude around here. I told you I'm not hooked! Now what do I have to do to prove it?"
"You're hooked, Larry," Byrnes said quietly.
"I'm hooked, I'm hooked, I'm hooked, is that the only goddamn song you know? Is that the only one you and your big-shot doctor friend rehearsed? Jesus Christ, how'd I ever get such a goddamn square for a father?"
"I'm sorry I disappoint you," Byrnes said.
"Oh boy, here we go. Here comes the martyred-father-hood routine! I saw this in the movies ever since I was eight. Turn it off, Pop, it doesn't reach me."
"I'm not trying to reach you," Byrnes said. "I'm trying to cure you."
"How? With that crap your friend gave me? What was that crap, anyway?"
"A substitute drug of some sort."
"Yeah? Well, it's no damn good. I feel exactly the same. You could have saved your money. Listen, you want to do me a real favor? You really want to cure me?"
"You know I do."
"All right, go out and scare me up some junk. There must be plenty of it down at the station house. Listen, I got a better idea. Give me back that eighth you took from my dresser."
"No."
"Why not? Damnit, you just said you wanted to help me! Okay, so why won't you help me? Don't you want to help me?"
"I want to help you."
"Then get me the stuff."
"No."
"You big son of a bitch," Larry said, and the tears suddenly started on his face. "Why don't you help me? Get out of here! Get out of here! Get out of here, you lousy…" and the last sentence dissolved into a series of animal sobs.
"Larry…"
"Get out!" Larry shrieked.
"Son…"
"Don't call me your son! Don't call me that! What the hell do you care about me? You're just afraid you'll lose your cushy job because I'm a junkie, that's all."
"That's not true, Larry."
"It is true! You're scared crap because you think somebody'll find out about my habit and about those fingerprints on the syringe! Okay, you bastard, okay, you just wait 'til I get to a telephone."
"You're not getting to a phone until you're cured, Larry."
"That's what you think! When I get to a phone, I'm gonna call the newspapers, and I'm gonna tell them all about it. Now, how about that? How about it, Dad? HOW ABOUT IT? Do I get that eighth?"
"You're not getting the heroin, and you're not getting near a phone, either. Now relax, son."
"I don't want to relax!" Larry shouted. "I can't relax! Listen, you! Now listen to me, you! Now you just listen to me!" He stood facing his father, his face streaked with tears, his eyes red, pointing his finger up at his father's face, shaking the finger as if it were a dagger. "Now listen to me! I want that stuff, do you hear me? Now you get that stuff for me, do you hear?"
"I hear you. You're not getting any heroin. If you want me to, I'll call John again."
"I don't want your snotnose doctor here again!"
"He's going to keep treating you until you're cured, Larry."
"Cured of what? Can't you get it through your head that I'm not sick? What's he going to cure?"
"If you're not sick, why do you want a shot?"
"To tide me over, you damn jerk!"
"Over what?"
"Until I'm okay again. Damnit, do I have to spell everything out? What's the matter, are you stupid? I thought you were a cop, I thought cops were supposed to be smart!"
"I'll call Johnny," Byrnes said. He turned and started for the door.
"No!" Larry screamed. "I don't want him here again! That's it! That's final! Now that's it!"
"He might be able to lessen your pain."
"What pain? Don't talk to me about pain. What do you know about pain? You've been living all your stupid life, and you don't know half the pain I know. I'm eighteen, and I know more pain than you'll ever know. So don't tell me about pain. You don't know pain, you bastard!"
"Larry, do you want me to knock you down?" Byrnes asked quietly.
"What? What? You going to hit me? Okay, go ahead. Be a big muscle man, what the hell will that get you? You going to beat me out of this?"
"Out of what?"
"Out of what, out of what, I don't know what! Oh, you're a tricky bastard. You're trying to get me to say I'm sick, ain't you? You're trying to get me to say I'm hooked, I know. I know. Well, I'm not!"
"I'm not trying to get you to say anything."
"No, huh? Well then, go ahead, why don't you beat me? Why don't you make believe this is your squad room, go ahead, start using your fists, start beating me up. You can take me easy. You can…" He stopped suddenly and clutched at his stomach. He stood doubled over, his arm crossing his middle. Byrnes watched him helplessly.
"Larry…"
"Sh
hh," Larry said softly.
"Son, what…?"
"Shhhh, shhhh." He stood rocking on his heels, back and forth, clutching his stomach, and then finally he lifted his head, and his eyes were wet, and this time the tears coursed down his face, and he said, "Dad, I'm sick, I'm very sick."
Byrnes went to him and put his arm around his shoulder. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but nothing would come to his tongue.
"Dad, I'm asking you, please. Please, Dad, would you please get me something? Dad, please, I'm very sick, and I need a fix. So please, Dad, please, I'm begging you, get me something. Please get me something, just a little bit to tide me over, please, Dad, please. I'll never, never ask you for anything else as long as I live. I'll leave home, I'll do whatever you say, but please get me something, Dad. If you love me, please get me something."
"I'll call Johnny," Byrnes said.
"No, Dad, please, please, that stuff he gave me is no good, it doesn't help."
"He'll try something else."
"No, please, please, please, please…"
"Larry, Larry, son…"
"Dad, if you love me…"
"I love you, Larry," Byrnes said, and he held his son's shoulder tightly, and there were tears on his own face now, and his son shuddered and then said, "I have to go to the bathroom. I have to… Dad, help me, help me."
And Byrnes took his son to the bathroom across the hall, and Larry was very sick. At the foot of the stairs, Harriet stood with her hands wrung together, and after a while her husband and her son crossed the hall again, and then Byrnes came out of Larry's bedroom and locked the door on the outside and went down the steps to his wife.
"Call Johnny again," he said. "Tell him to get right over."
Harriet hesitated, and her eyes were on Byrnes' face, and Byrnes said, "He's very sick, Harriet. He's really very sick."
Harriet, with the wisdom of a wife and mother, knew that this was not what Byrnes wanted to say at all. She nodded and went to the telephone.
The lions were really kicking it up.
Maybe they're hungry, Carella thought. Maybe they'd like a nice fat detective for dinner. It's a pity I'm not a fat detective, but maybe they're not very choosy lions, maybe they'll settle for a lean detective.