by Fuzz
“Okay,” the cop says, “you can close it.”
The deaf man snaps the lid of the case shut, fastens the clasp again.
“I’ll take them inside,” Buck says.
“Right, Sarge,” the cop says, and the trio goes up the walk to the house, where they are stopped by a detective at the front door.
“Sergeant Pierce, Emergency Service,” Buck says. “These men are from the electric company, here to check that power failure.”
“Right,” the detective says.
“I’ll stick with them,” Buck says, “but I don’t want no other responsibility.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the mayor trips and breaks his ankle while they’re on the premises, I don’t want no static from my captain.”
“We’ll keep the mayor far away from you,” the detective says, and smiles.
“Okay, where you guys want to start?” Buck asks. “The basement?”
They go into the house. There are battery-powered lights set up, but for the most part the house is dim, the figures moving through it are uncertainly defined. The three men start in the basement, going through the motions of checking out circuits. They go through every room of the house, never once seeing the mayor in the course of their inspection. In the master bedroom, the deaf man shoves the testing equipment under the huge double bed, ostensibly searching for a leak at the electrical outlet. When he walks out of the room, he is no longer carrying anything. The “Industrial Analyzer” is on the floor under the mayor’s bed.
That analyzer, with its factory-sleek assortment of dials, knobs, jacks, and electrical terminology is real—but nonetheless fake. There is no testing equipment behind those meters, the interior of the box has been stripped bare. Hidden below the instrument panel, set to go off at 2 A.M., there is only another of Buck’s bombs.
Tomorrow night, the mayor would die.
And on Saturday morning, the uncommitted would commit. They would open their newspapers and read the headlines, and they would know the letter was for real, no opportunist could have accurately predicted the murder without having engineered it and executed it himself. They would take the letter from where they had casually put it, and they would read it once again, and they would fully comprehend its menace now, fully realize the absolute terror inherent in its words. When one was faced with the promise of unexpected death, was five thousand dollars really so much to invest? Not a man on that list of one hundred earned less than $200,000 a year. They had all been carefully researched, the original list of four hundred and twenty names being cut and revised and narrowed down to only those who seemed the most likely victims, those to whom losing five thousand dollars at a Las Vegas crap table meant nothing, those who were known to have invested in speculative stocks or incoming Broadway plays—those, in short, who would be willing to gamble five thousand dollars in hope of salvation.
They will pay us, the deaf man thought.
Oh, not all of them, certainly not all of them. But enough of them. Perhaps a few more murders are in order, perhaps some of those sleek fat cats on the list will have to be eliminated before the rest are convinced, but they will be convinced, and they will pay. After the murder tomorrow night, after that, when they know we’re not fooling, they will pay.
The deaf man suddenly smiled.
There should be a very large crowd around City Hall starting perhaps right this minute, he thought. It will be an interesting weekend.
“You hit the nail right on the head,” Lieutenant Byrnes said to Steve Carella. “He’s going for the mayor next.”
“He’ll never get away with it,” Hawes said.
“He’d better not get away with it,” Byrnes said. “If he succeeds in knocking off the major, he’ll be picking up cash like it’s growing in the park. How many of these letters do you suppose he’s mailed?”
“Well, let’s try to figure it,” Carella said. “First he warned the parks commissioner and demanded five thousand dollars. Next the deputy major, and a demand for fifty thousand. Now he tells us he’ll kill the mayor this Friday night. So if the escalation carries through, he should be bucking for ten times fifty thousand, which is five hundred thousand. If we divide that by—”
“Forget it,” Byrnes said.
“I’m only trying to figure out the mathematics.”
“What’s mathematics got to do with JMV getting killed?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said, and shrugged. “But it seems to me if we can figure out the progression, we can also figure out what’s wrong with the progression.”
Byrnes stared at him.
“I’m trying to say it just isn’t enough for this guy to knock off the mayor,” Carella said.
“It isn’t, huh? Knocking off the mayor seems like more than enough to me.”
“Yeah, but not for somebody like the deaf man. He’s too proud of his own cleverness.” Carella looked at the letter again. “Who’s this man Carl Wahler?” he asked.
“A dress manufacturer, lives downtown in Stewart City, 17th Precinct. He brought the letter in there this morning. Captain Bundy thought we’d want to see it. Because of our involvement with the previous murders.”
“It seems to fit right in with the pattern, doesn’t it?” Hawes said. “He announced the other murders, too.”
“Yes, but there’s something missing,” Carella said.
“What?”
“The personal angle. He started this in the 87th, a little vendetta for fouling him up years ago, when he was planting bombs all over the goddamn city to divert attention from his bank job. So why’s he taking it out of the 87th all at once? If he knocks off the mayor, nobody looks foolish but the special police assigned to his protection. We’re off the hook, home free. And that’s what I can’t understand. That’s what’s wrong with the pattern.”
“The pattern seems pretty clear to me,” Byrnes said. “If he can get to JMV after advertising it, what chance will anybody have without warning? Look at how many times he says that in his letter. Without warning, without warning.”
“It still bothers me,” Carella said.
“It shouldn’t,” Byrnes said. “He’s spelled it out in black and white. The man’s a goddamn fiend.”
The instant reaction of both Hawes and Carella was to laugh. You don’t as a general rule hear cops referring to criminals as “fiends,” even when they’re child molesters and mass murderers. That’s the sort of language reserved for judges or politicians. Nor did Byrnes usually express himself in such colorful expletives. But whereas both men felt a definite impulse to laugh out loud, one look at Byrnes’ face stifled any such urge. The lieutenant was at his wit’s end. He suddenly looked very old and very tired. He sighed heavily, and said, “How do we stop him, guys?” and he sounded for all the world like a freshman quarterback up against a varsity team with a three-hundred-pound line.
“We pray,” Carella said.
Although James Martin Vale, the mayor himself, was a devout Episcopalian, he decided that afternoon that he’d best do a lot more than pray if his family was to stay together.
So he called a top-level meeting in his office at City Hall (a meeting to which Lieutenant Byrnes was not invited), and it was decided that every precaution would be taken starting right then to keep “the deaf man” (as the men of the 87th insisted on calling him) from carrying out his threat. JMV was a man with a charming manner and a ready wit, and he managed to convince everyone in the office that he was more concerned about the people of his city than he was about his own safety. “We’ve got to save my life only so that this man won’t milk hard-earned dollars from the people of this great city,” he said. “If he gets away with this, they’ll allow themselves to be extorted. That’s why I want protection.”
“Your Honor,” the district attorney said, “if I may suggest, I think we should extend protection beyond the Friday night deadline. I think if this man succeeds in killing you anytime in the near future, the people of this city’ll thi
nk he’s made good his threat.”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” JMV said.
“Your Honor,” the city comptroller said, “I’d like to suggest that you cancel all personal appearances at least through April.”
“Well, I don’t think I should go into complete seclusion, do you?” JMV asked, mindful of the fact that this was an election year.
“Or at least curtail your personal appearances,” the comptroller said, remembering that indeed this was an election year, and remembering, too, that he was on the same ticket as His Honor the Mayor JMV.
“What do you think, Slim?” JMV asked the police commissioner.
The police commissioner, a man who was six feet four inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds, shifted his buttocks in the padded leather chair opposite His Honor’s desk, and said, “I’ll cover you with cops like fleas,” a not particularly delicate simile, but one which made its point nonetheless.
“You can count on however many men you need from my squad.” the district attorney said, mindful that two of his most trusted detectives had been blown to that big Police Academy in the sky only days before.
“I would like to suggest,” the city’s medical examiner said, “that you undergo a complete physical examination as soon as this meeting is concluded.”
“Why?” JMV asked.
“Because the possibility exists, Your Honor, that you’ve already been poisoned.”
“Well,” JMV said, “that sounds a bit farfetched.”
“Your Honor,” the medical examiner said, “an accumulation of small doses of poison administered over a period of time can result in death. Since we’re dealing with a man who has obviously evolved a long-term plan …”
“Yes, of course,” JMV said, “I’ll submit to examination as soon as you wish. Maybe you can clear up my cold at the same time,” he said charmingly, and grinned charmingly.
“Your Honor,” the president of the city council said, “I suggest we have each of the city’s vehicles inspected thoroughly and at once. I am remembering, sir, the bomb placed in …”
“Yes, we’ll have that done at once,” the district attorney said hastily.
“Your Honor,” the mayor’s press secretary said, “I’d like to suggest that we suppress all news announcements concerning your whereabouts, your speaking engagements, and so on, until this thing blows over.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” JMV said, “but of course I won’t be venturing too far from home in any case, will I, Stan?” he said, and grinned charmingly at the district attorney.
“No, sir, I’d advise your becoming a homebody for the next month or so,” the district attorney said.
“Of course, there may be a bomb in this office right this minute,” the police commissioner said tactlessly, causing everyone to fall suddenly silent. Into the silence, came the loud ticking of the wall clock, which was a little unnerving.
“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “perhaps we ought to have the premises searched, as well as my home. If we’re to do this right, we’ll have to take every precaution.”
“Yes, sir,” the district attorney said.
“And, of course, we’ll have to do everything in our power meanwhile to locate this man, this deaf man.”
“Yes, sir, we’re doing everything in our power right now,” the police commissioner said.
“Which is what?” JMV asked, charmingly.
“He’s got to make a mistake,” the police commissioner said.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He’s got to.”
“But in the meantime,” JMV asked, “do you have any leads?”
“Police work,” the commissioner said, “is a combination of many seemingly unconnected facets that suddenly jell,” and frowned, suspecting that his metaphor hadn’t quite come off. “There are a great many accidents involved in police work, and we consider these accidents a definite contributing factor in the apprehension of criminals. We will, for example, arrest a man on a burglary charge, oh, six or seven months from now, and discover in questioning him that he committed a homicide during the commission of another crime, oh, four or five months ago.
“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “I hope we’re not going to have to wait six or seven months for our man to make a mistake while committing another crime.”
“I didn’t mean to sound so pessimistic,” the commissioner said. “I was merely trying to explain, Your Honor, that a lot of police work dovetails past and present and future. I have every confidence that we’ll apprehend this man within a reasonable length of time.”
“Hopefully before he kills me,” JMV said, and grinned charmingly. “Well,” he said, “if there’s nothing further to discuss, perhaps we can set all these precautionary measures into motion. I’ll be happy to see your doctor, Herb, whenever you want to send him in.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll get in touch with the Bomb Squad,” the police commissioner said, rising.
“Yes, that’s probably the first thing to do,” JMV said, rising. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time and your valuable suggestions. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”
“You’ll have men here in the next two or three minutes,” the district attorney promised.
“Thank you, Stan,” the mayor said, “I certainly appreciate your concern.”
The men filed out of the mayor’s office, each of them assuring him once again that he would be amply protected. The mayor thanked each of them charmingly and individually, and then sat in the big padded leather chair behind his desk and stared at the ticking wall clock.
Outside, it was beginning to snow.
The snow was very light at first.
It drifted from the sky lazily and uncertainly, dusting the streets and the sidewalks with a thin fluffy powder. By eight P.M. that night, when Patrolman Richard Genero was discharged from Buena Vista Hospital, the snow was beginning to fall a bit more heavily, but it presented no major traffic problems as yet, especially if—like Genero’s father—one had snow tires on his automobile. Their ride home was noisy but uneventful. Genero’s mother kept urging her son to talk to the captain, and Genero’s father kept telling her to shut up. Genero himself felt healthy and strong and was anxious to get back to work, even though he’d learned he would start his tour of duty on the four-to-midnight tomorrow. He had also learned, however, that Captain Frick, in consideration for his recent wound, was not asking him to walk a beat for the next week or so. Instead, he would be riding shotgun in one of the RMP cars. Genero considered this a promotion.
Of sorts.
The snow continued to fall.
13
Friday.
The city was a regular tundra, you never saw so much snow in your life unless you happened to have been born and raised in Alaska, and then probably not. There was snow on everything. There was snow on roofs and walls and sidewalks and streets and garbage cans and automobiles and flowerpots, and even on people. Boy, what a snowfall. It was worse than the Blizzard of ’88, people who didn’t remember the Blizzard of ’88 were saying. His Honor the Mayor JMV, as if he didn’t have enough headaches, had to arrange with the Sanitation Department for the hiring of 1200 additional temporary employees to shovel and load and dump the snow into the River Dix, a job estimated to cost five hundred and eight thousand four hundred dollars and to consume the better part of a full week—if it didn’t snow again.
The men began working as soon as the snow stopped. It did not stop until three-thirty P.M., fifteen minutes before Genero began riding the RMP car, an hour and a half before Willis and Carella took their posts in the rear of the tailor shop. The city had figured on working their snow people in three continuous shifts, but they hadn’t figured on the numbing cold that followed the storm and lowered the rate of efficiency, a biting frigid wave that had come down from Canada or someplace. Actually, nobody cared where it had come from, they merely wished it would continue going, preferably out to sea, or down to Bermuda, or even all the
way to Florida; do it to Julia, everyone was thinking.
There was no doing it to Julia that day.
The cold gripped the city and froze it solid. Emergency snow regulations had gone into effect at noon, and by four P.M. the city seemed deserted. Most large business offices were closed, with traffic stalled to a standstill and buses running only infrequently. Alternate-side-of-the-street parking had been suspended, but stranded automobiles blocked intersections, humped with snow like igloos on an arctic plain. The temporary snowmen fought the cold and the drifted snow, huddled around coal fires built in empty gasoline drums, and then manned their shovels again while waiting dump trucks idled, exhaust pipes throwing giant white plumes into the bitter dusk. The lamppost lights came on at five P.M., casting isolated amber circles on the dead white landscape. A fierce relentless wind howled across avenue and street as the leaden sky turned dark and darker and black.
Sitting cozy and warm in the back room of John the Tailor’s shop, playing checkers with Hal Willis (and losing seven games in a row since it turned out that Willis had belonged to the checkers club in high school, an elite group calling itself The Red and The Black), Carella wondered how he would get home after La Bresca and Calucci hit the shop.
He was beginning to doubt that they would hit at all. If there was one thing he did not understand, of course, it was the criminal mind, but he was willing to venture a guess that no self-respecting crook would brave the snow and the cold outside on a night like this. It would be different if the job involved a factor that might change in a day or so, like say ten million dollars of gold bullion to be delivered at a precise moment on a specific day, making it necessary to combine pinpoint timing with insane daring, but no such variable was involved in this penny-ante stickup. The men had cased the shop and learned that John the Tailor carried his week’s earnings home in a metal box every Friday night after closing. He had doubtless been performing this same chore every Friday night for the past seven thousand years, and would continue to do it without variation for the next thousand. So, if not this Friday night, what are you doing next Friday, John? Or, better yet, why not wait until May, when the trees are budding and the birds are singing, and a man can pull off a little felony without the attendant danger of frostbite?