by Ed McBain
Q: Did you stab her in the chest?
A: No.
Q: Where?
A: The belly. Someplace in the belly.
Q: How many times did you stab her?
A: Once. She . . . she backed away from me, I’ll never forget the look on her face. And she . . . she fell on the floor.
Q: Would you look at this photograph, please?
A: Oh, Jesus.
Q: Is that the woman you stabbed?
A: Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, I didn’t think . . . oh, Jesus.
Q: Is that the woman?
A: Yes. Yes, that’s her. Yes.
Q: What happened next?
A: Can I have a drink of water?
Q: Get him a drink of water. You stabbed her, and she fell to the floor. What happened next?
A: There was . . .
Q: Yes?
A: There was somebody at the door. I heard the door opening. Then somebody came in.
Q: Came into the apartment?
A: Yes. And yelled her name.
Q: From the front door?
A: I guess. From someplace at the other end of the apartment.
Q: Called her name?
A: Yeah. He yelled, “Sarah!” and when he got no answer, he yelled, “Sarah, it’s me, I’m home.”
Q: Then what?
A: I knew I was trapped. I couldn’t go out the way I come in because this guy was home. So I ran past the . . . the woman where she was laying on the floor . . . Jesus . . . and I tried to open the window, but it was stuck. So I smashed it with the airlines bag and . . . I didn’t know what to do . . . I was on the second floor, how was I going to get out? I threw the bag down first because I figured no matter what happened I was going to need bread for another fix, and then I climbed through the broken window—I cut my hand on a piece of glass—and I hung down from the sill, scared to let go, and finally I let go, I had to let go.
Q: Yes?
A: I must’ve dropped a mile, it felt like a mile. The minute I hit, I knew I busted something. I tried to get up, and I fell right down. My ankle was killing me, my hand was bleeding. I must’ve been in that alley ten, fifteen minutes, trying to stand up, falling down, trying again. I finally made it. I finally got out of that alley.
Q: Where did you go?
A: Through the basement and up to the street. The way I come in.
Q: And where did you go from there?
A: I took the subway home. To Riverhead. I turned on the radio right away to see if there was anything about . . . about what I done. But there wasn’t. So I tried to go to sleep, but the ankle was very bad, and I needed a fix. I went to see Dr. Mendelsohn in the morning because I figured it was like life or death, you know what I mean? If I couldn’t get around, how was I going to make a connection?
Q: When did you visit Dr. Mendelsohn?
A: Early. Nine o’clock. Nine A . M .
Q: Is he your family physician?
A: I never saw him before in my life. He’s around the corner from where I live. That’s the only reason I picked him, because he was close. He strapped up the ankle, but it didn’t do no good. I still can’t walk on it, I’m like a lousy cripple. I told him to bill me for it. I was going to pay him as soon as I got some bread. That’s why I gave him my right name and address. I wasn’t going to cheat him. I’m not that kind of person. I know that what I done is bad, but I’m not a bad person.
Q: When did you learn that Mrs. Fletcher was dead?
A: I bought a newspaper on the way home from the doctor’s. The story was in it. That’s when I knew I killed her.
Q: You did not know until then?
A: I did not know how bad it was.
4
O n Tuesday, December 14, which was the first of Carella’s two days off that week, he received a call at home from Gerald Fletcher. He knew that no one in the squad room would have given his home number to a civilian, and he further knew that the number was unlisted in the Riverhead directory. Puzzled, he said, “How’d you get my number, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Friend of mine in the D.A.’s office,” Fletcher said.
“Well, what can I do for you?” Carella asked. His voice, he realized, was something less than cordial.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home this way.”
“It is my day off,” Carella said, fully aware that he was being rude.
“I wanted to apologize for the other night,” Fletcher said.
“Oh?” Carella answered, surprised.
“I know I behaved badly. You men had a job to do, and I wasn’t making it any easier for you. I’ve been trying to understand what provoked my attitude, and I can only think I must have been in shock. I disliked my wife, true, but finding her dead that way was probably more unnerving than I realized. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Carella said. “You’ve been informed, of course, that . . .”
“Yes, you caught the murderer.”
“Yes.”
“That was fast and admirable work, Detective Carella. And it only adds to the embarrassment I feel for having behaved so idiotically.”
“Well,” Carella said, and the line went silent.
“Please accept my apologies,” Fletcher said.
“Sure,” Carella said, beginning to feel embarrassed himself.
“I was wondering if you’re free for lunch today.”
“Well,” Carella said, “I was going to get some Christmas shopping done. My wife and I made out a list last night, and I thought . . .”
“Will you be coming downtown?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Perhaps you could manage both.”
“Well, look, Mr. Fletcher,” Carella said, “I know you feel bad about the other night, but you said you’re sorry and that’s enough, believe me. It was nice of you to call, I realize it wasn’t an easy thing to . . .”
“Why not meet me at The Golden Lion at one o’clock?” Fletcher said. “Christmas shopping can be exhausting. You might welcome a break along about then.”
“Well . . . where’s The Golden Lion?” Carella asked.
“On Juniper and High.”
“Downtown? Near the Criminal Courts Building?”
“Exactly. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“One o’clock then?” Fletcher said.
“Well, yeah, okay,” Carella said.
“Good, I’ll look for you.”
Carella did not know why he went to see Sam Grossman at the Police Lab that afternoon. He told himself that he was going to be in the neighborhood, anyway, The Golden Lion being all the way downtown in the area bordered by the city’s various courthouses. But this did not explain why he rushed through the not-unpleasant task of choosing a doll for his daughter, April, in order to get to Police Headquarters on High Street a full half hour before he was to meet Fletcher.
Grossman was hunched over a microscope when Carella walked in, but without opening his one closed eye, and without raising his head from the eyepiece, he said, “Sit down, Steve, be with you in a minute.”
Grossman kept adjusting the focus and jotting notes on a pad near his right hand, never lifting his head. Carella was trying to puzzle out how Grossman had known it was he. The sound of his footfalls? The smell of his aftershave lotion? The faint aroma of his wife’s perfume clinging to the shoulder of his overcoat? He had not, until this moment, been aware that Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman, he of the spectacles and sharp blue eyes, he of the craggy face and clipped no-nonsense voice, was in reality Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, who was capable of recognizing a man without looking at him. Grossman’s remarkable trick occupied all of Carella’s thoughts for the next five minutes. At the end of that time, Grossman looked up from the microscope, extended his hand, and said, “What brings you to the eighth circle?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Huh?” Grossman said.
“I came into the room, and you never looked up,
but you said, ‘Sit down, Steve, be right with you.’ How’d you know it was me without first looking at me?”
“Ah-ha,” Grossman said.
“No, come on, Sam, it’s bugging the hell out of me.”
“Well, it’s really quite simple,” Grossman said, grinning. “You will notice that the time is now twenty-five minutes to one, and that the sun, having passed its zenith, is glancing obliquely through the bank of windows lining the laboratory wall, touching the clock ever so faintly and casting shadows the angle of which can easily be measured.”
“Mmm?” Carella said.
“Moreover, the specimen on this microscope slide is particularly light-sensitive, meaning that the slightest deviation of any ray you might care to name—X, ultraviolet, or infrared—could easily have caused recognizable changes on the slide while I was examining it. Couple this, Steve, with the temperature, which I believe is close to ten above zero, and the air pollution level, which is, as usual in this city, unsatisfactory, and you can understand how all this might account for immediate identification without visibility being a necessary factor.”
“Yeah?” Carella said.
“Exactly. There’s one other important point, of course, and I think we should consider it, too, if we’re to understand the complete picture. You wanted to know how I knew you had entered the laboratory and were approaching the worktable? To begin with, when I heard the door opening . . .”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Well, here’s the single most important element in the deductive process that led me to my inescapable conclusion . . .”
“Yes, what?”
“Marshall Davies saw you in the hall. He popped in just before you opened the door, to tell me you were coming.”
“You son of a bitch,” Carella said, and burst out laughing.
“How do you like the job he did for you guys?” Grossman asked.
“Beautiful,” Carella said.
“Practically handed it to you on a platter.”
“No question.”
“The Police Laboratory strikes again,” Grossman said. “Pretty soon we’ll be able to do without you guys entirely.”
“I know. That’s why I came down to see you. I want to turn in my badge.”
“About time,” Grossman said. “Why did you come down? Big case you want us to crack in record time?”
“Nothing more important than a couple of purse snatches on Culver Avenue.”
“Bring the victims in. We’ll try to lift some latents from their backsides,” Grossman said.
“I don’t think they’d like that,” Carella said.
“And why not? We would treat the ladies with great delicacy.”
“Oh, I don’t think the lady would mind. But the guy whose purse was snatched . . .”
“You son of a bitch!” Grossman shouted, and both men began laughing hysterically.
“Seriously,” Carella said, laughing.
“Yes, yes, seriously,” Grossman said.
“Listen, I’m really trying to be serious here.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“I came down to thank you.”
“For what?” Grossman said, sobering immediately.
“I was about to go out on a limb. The stuff you got for us clinched the case and made an arrest possible. I wanted to thank you, that’s all.”
“What kind of a limb, Steve?”
“I thought the husband did it.”
“Mmm?”
“Mmm.”
“Why?”
“No reason.” Carella paused. “Sam,” he said, “I still think he did it.”
“Is that why you’re having lunch with him today?” Grossman asked.
“Now how the hell do you know that?” Carella said.
“Ah-ha,” Grossman answered. “He was in Rollie Chabrier’s office when he called you. I spoke to Rollie a little while after that, and . . .”
“Good day, sir,” Carella said. “You’re too much of a smart-ass for me.”
Most policemen in the city for which Carella worked did not very often eat in restaurants like The Golden Lion. They ate lunch at one or another of the greasy spoons in and around the precinct, where the meal was on the arm, tribute to Caesar. Or they grabbed a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee at their desks. On their own time, when they entertained wives or girl friends, they often dropped in on restaurants where they were known as cops, protesting demonstratively when the proprietor said, “This is on the house,” but accepting the gratuity nonetheless. Not a single cop in the city considered the practice dishonest. They were underpaid and overworked and they were here to protect the average citizen against criminal attack. If some of those citizens were in a position to make the policeman’s lot a bit more tolerable, why should they embarrass those persons by refusing a free meal graciously offered? Carella had never been inside The Golden Lion. A look at the menu posted on the window outside would have frightened him out of six months’ pay.
The place was a faithful replica of the dining room of an English coach house, circa 1637. Huge oaken beams crossed the room several feet below the vaulted ceiling, binding together the rough white plastered walls. The tables were sturdy, covered with immaculate white cloths, sparkling with heavy silver. Here and there throughout the room there hung the portraits of Elizabethan gentlemen and ladies, white-laced collars and cuffs discreetly echoing the color of the walls, rich velvet robes or gowns adding muted touches of color to the pristine candlelit atmosphere. Gerald Fletcher’s table was in a secluded corner of the restaurant. He rose as Carella approached, extended his hand, and immediately said, “Glad you could make it. Sit down, won’t you?”
Carella shook Fletcher’s hand, and then sat. He felt extremely uncomfortable, nor could he tell whether his discomfort was caused by the room or the man with whom he was dining. The room was intimidating, true, brimming with lawyers discussing their most recent cases in voices best saved for juries. In their presence Carella felt somewhat like a numbers collector in the policy racket, picking up the work to deliver it to the higher-ups for processing and final disposition. The law was his life, but in the midst of lawyers he felt like a menial. The man sitting opposite him was a criminal lawyer, which was intimidating in itself. But he was something more than that, and it was this perhaps that made Carella feel awkward and clumsy in his presence. It did not matter whether or not Fletcher truly was cleverer than Carella, or more sophisticated, or better at his work, or handsomer, or more articulate—the truth was unimportant. Carella felt Fletcher was all of these things; the man’s manner and bearing and attack (yes, it could be called nothing else) utterly convinced Carella that he was in the presence of a superior being, and this was as good as, if not more potent than, the actual truth.
“Would you care for a drink?” Fletcher asked.
“Well, are you having one?” Carella asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll have a scotch and soda,” Carella said. He was not used to drinking at lunch. He never drank at lunch when he was on duty, and the next time he would drink at lunch in his own home would be on Christmas day, when the family came to celebrate the holiday.
Fletcher signaled for the waiter. “Have you ever been here before?” he asked Carella.
“No, never.”
“I thought you might have. It being so close to all the courts. You do spend a lot of time in court, don’t you?”
“Yes, quite a bit,” Carella said.
“Ah,” Fletcher said to the waiter. “A scotch and soda, please, and another whiskey sour for me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” the waiter said, and padded off.
“I cannot tell you how impressed I was by the speed with which you people made your arrest,” Fletcher said.
“Well, we had a lot of help from the lab,” Carella said.
“Incredible, wasn’t it? I’m talking about the man’s carelessness. But then I understand from Rollie . . .” Fletcher paused. “Rol
lie Chabrier, in the D.A.’s office. I believe you know him.”
“Yes, I do.”
“He’s the one who gave me your home number. I hope you won’t think too badly of him for it.”
“No, no, quite all right,” Carella said.
“I called you directly from his office this morning. Quite coincidentally, he’ll be prosecuting the case against Corwin.”
“Scotch and soda, sir?” the waiter asked rhetorically, and set the drink down before Carella. He put the second whiskey sour on the table before Fletcher and then said, “Would you care to see menus now, Mr. Fletcher?”
“In a bit,” Fletcher said.
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter answered, and went off again.
Fletcher raised his glass. “Here’s to a conviction,” he said.
Carella lifted his own glass. “I don’t expect Rollie’ll have any trouble,” he said. “It looks airtight to me.”
Both men drank. Fletcher dabbed his lips with a napkin and said, “You never can tell these days. I practice criminal law, as you know, and I’m usually on the other side of the fence. You’d be surprised at the number of times we’ve won acquittal on cases that seemed cinches for the people.” He lifted his glass again. His eyes met Carella’s. “I hope you’re right, though,” he said. “I hope this one is airtight.” He sipped at the drink. “Rollie was telling me . . .”
“Yes, you were starting to say . . .”
“Yes, that the man is a drug addict . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“Who’d never before burglarized an apartment.”
“That’s right.”
“I must admit I feel a certain amount of sympathy for him.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. If he’s an addict he’s automatically entitled to pity. And when one considers that the woman he murdered was a bitch like my wife . . .”
“Mr. Fletcher . . .”
“Gerry, okay?”
“Well . . .”
“I know, I know. It isn’t very kind of me to malign the dead. I’m afraid you didn’t know my wife, though, Mr. Carella. May I call you Steve?”
“Sure.”
“My enmity might be a bit more understandable if you did. Still, I shall take your advice. She’s dead, and no longer capable of hurting me. So why be bitter? Shall we order, Steve?”