Cop Hater

by Ed McBain

  "Alice?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Steve Carella."

  "Oh. Hello, Steve."

  "Did I wake you?"

  "Yes."

  "Hank's not here yet. He's all right, isn't he?"

  "He left a little while ago," Alice said. The sleep was beginning to leave her voice already. Alice Bush was a cop's wife who generally slept when her husband did, adjusting her schedule to fit his. Carella had spoken to her on a good many mornings and afternoons, and he always marveled at the way she could come almost instantly awake within the space of three or four sentences. Her voice invariably sounded like the first faint rattle of impending death when she picked up the receiver. As the conversation progressed, it modulated into the dulcet whine of a middle-aged Airedale, and then into the disconcertingly sexy voice which was the normal speaking voice of Hank's wife. Carella had met her on one occasion, when he and Hank had shared a late snack with her, and he knew that she was a dynamic blonde with a magnificent figure and the brownest eyes he'd ever seen. From what Bush had expansively delivered about personal aspects of his home life, Carella knew that Alice slept in clinging black, sheer nightgowns. The knowledge was unnerving, for whenever Carella roused her out of bed, he automatically formed a mental picture of the well-rounded blonde he'd met, and the picture was always dressed as Hank had described it

  He generally, therefore, cut his conversations with Alice short, feeling somewhat guilty about the artistic inclinations of his mind. This morning, though, Alice seemed to be in a talkative mood.

  "I understand one of your colleagues got knocked off," she said.

  Carella smiled, in spite of the topic's grimness. Alice sometimes had a peculiar way of mixing the King's English with choice bits of underworld and police vernacular.

  "Yes," he said.

  "I'm awfully sorry," she answered, her mood and her voice changing. "Please be careful, you and Hank. If a cheap hood is shooting up the streets ..."

  "We'll be careful," he said. "I've got to go now, Alice,"

  "I leave Hank in capable hands," Alice said, and she hung up without saying goodbye.

  Carella grinned and shrugged, and then put the receiver back into the cradle. David Foster, his brown face looking scrubbed and shining, ambled over to the desk. "Afternoon, Steve," he said.

  "Hi, Dave. What've you got?"

  "Ballistics report on that .45 you brought in last night."

  "Any luck?"

  "Hasn't been fired since Old King Cole ordered the bowl."

  "Well, that narrows it down," Carella said. "Now we've only got the nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand other people in this fair city to contend with."

  "I don't like it when cops get killed," Foster said. His brow lowered menacingly, giving him the appearance of a bull ducking his head to charge at the muleta. "Mike was my partner. He was a good guy."

  "I know."

  "I been trying to think who," Foster said. "I got my personal I.B. right up here, and I been leafing through them mug shots one by one." He tapped his temple. "I been turning them over and studying them, and so far I haven't got anything, but give me time. Somebody musta had it in for Mike, and when that face falls into place, that guy's gonna wish he was in Alaska."

  "Tell you the truth," Carella said, "I wish I was there right now."

  "Hot, ain't it?" Foster said, classically understating the temperature and humidity.

  "Yeah." From the corner of his eye, Carella saw Bush walk down the corridor, push through the railing, and sign in. He walked to Carella's desk, pulled over a swivel chair and plopped into it disconsolately.

  "Rough night?" Foster asked, grinning. "The roughest," Bush said in his quiet voice.

  "Clarke was a blank," Carella told him.

  'I figured as much. Where do we go from here?"

  "That's a good question."

  "Coroner's report in yet?"

  "No."

  "The boys picked up some hoods for questioning," Foster said. "We might give them the once over."

  "Where are they? Downstairs?" Carella asked.

  "In the Waldorf Suite," Foster said, referring to the detention cells on the first floor of the building.

  "Why don't you call down for them?"

  "Sure," Foster said.

  "Where's the Skipper?"

  "He's over at Homicide North. He's trying to goose them into some real action on this one."

  "You see the paper this morning?" Bush asked.

  "No," Carella said.

  "Mike made the front page. Have a look." He put the paper on Carella's desk. Carella held it up so that Foster could see it while he spoke on the phone.

  "Shot him in the back," Foster mumbled. "That lousy bastard." He spoke into the phone and then hung up. The men lighted cigarettes, and Bush phoned out for coffee, and then they sat around gassing. The prisoners arrived before the coffee did.

  There were two men, both unshaven, both tall, both wearing short-sleeved sports shirts. The physical resemblance ended there. One of the men owned a handsome face, with regular features and white, even teeth. The other man looked as if his face had challenged a concrete mixer and lost. Carella recognized both of them at once. Mentally, he flipped over their cards in the Lousy File.

  "Were they picked up together?" he asked the Uniformed cop who brought them into the squad room.

  "Yeah," the cop said.

  "Where?"

  "13th and Shippe. They were sitting in a parked car."

  "Any law against that?" the handsome one asked.

  "At three in the morning," the uniformed cop added.

  "Okay," Carella said. "Thanks."

  "What's your name?" Bush asked the handsome one.

  "You know my name, cop."

  "Say it again. I like the sound."

  "I'm tired."

  "You're gonna be a lot more tired before this is finished. Now cut the comedy, and answer the questions. Your name?"

  "Terry."

  'Terry what?"

  "Terry McCarthy. What the hell is this, a joke? You know my name."

  "How about your buddy?"

  "You know him, too. He's Clarence Kelly."

  "What were you doing in that car?" Carella asked.

  "Lookin" at dirty pictures," McCarthy said.

  "Possession of pornography," Carella said dully. "Take that down, Hank."

  "Hey, wait a minute," McCarthy said. "I was only wise-crackin'."

  "DON'T WISECRACK ON MY TIME!!" Carella shouted.

  "Okay, okay, don't get sore."

  "What were you doing in that car?"

  "Sitting."

  "You always sit in parked cars at three in the a.m.?" Foster asked.

  "Sometimes," McCarthy said.

  "What else were you doing?"

  "Talking."

  "What about?"

  "Everything."

  "Philosophy?" Bush asked.

  "Yeah," McCarthy said.

  "What'd you decide?"

  "We decided it ain't wise to sit in parked cars at three in the morning. There's always some cop who's got to fill his pinch book."

  Carella tapped a pencil on the desk. "Don't get me mad, McCarthy," he said. "I just come from six hours sleep, and I don't feel like listening to a vaudeville routine. Did you know Mike Reardon?"

  "Who?"

  "Mike Reardon. A detective attached to this precinct."

  McCarthy shrugged. He turned to Kelly. "We know him, Clarence?"

  "Yeah," Clarence said. "Reardon. That rings a bell."

  "How big a bell?" Foster asked.

  "Just a tiny tinkle so far," Kelly said, and he began laugh-ing. The laugh died when he saw the bulls weren't quite appreciating his humor.

  "Did you see him last night?"

  "No."

  "How do you know?"

  "We didn't run across any bulls last night," Kelly said. "Do you usually?" "Well, sometimes."

  "Were you heeled when they pulled you in?" "What?"


  "Come on," Foster said. "No."

  "We'll check that."

  "Yeah, go ahead," McCarthy said. "We didn't even have a water pistol between us."

  "What were you doing in the car?"

  "I just told you," McCarthy said.

  "The story stinks. Try again," Carella answered.

  Kelly sighed, McCarthy looked at him.

  "Well?" Carella said.

  "I was checkin' up on my dame," Kelly said.

  "Yeah?" Bush said.

  "Truth," Kelly said. "So help me Jesus, may I be struck dead right this goddamn minute."

  "What's there to check up on?" Bush asked.

  "Well, you know."

  "No, I don't know. Tell me."

  "I figured she was maybe slippin' around."

  "Slipping around with who?" Bush asked.

  "Well, that's what I wanted to find out."

  "And what were you doing with him, McCarthy?"

  "I was helping him check," McCarthy said, smiling.

  "Was she?" Bush asked, a bored expression on his face.

  "No, I don't think so," Kelly said.

  "Don't check again," Bush said. "Next time we're liable to find you with the burglar's tools."

  "Burglar's tools!" McCarthy said shocked.

  "Gee, Detective Bush," Kelly said, "you know us better than that."

  "Get the hell out of here," Bush said. "We can go home?"

  "You can go to hell, for my part," Bush informed them.

  "Here's the coffee," Foster said.

  The released prisoners sauntered out of the Squad Room. The three detectives paid the delivery boy for the coffee and then pulled chairs up to one of the desks.

  "I heard a good one last night," Foster said.

  "Let's hear it," Carella prompted.

  "This guy is a construction worker, you see?"

  "Yeah."

  "Working up on a girder about sixty floors above the street."

  "Yeah?"

  "The lunch whistle blows. He knocks off, goes to the end of the girder, sits down, and puts his lunch box on his lap. He opens the box, takes out a sandwich and very carefully unwraps the waxed paper. Then he bites into it. 'Goddamn!' he says, 'peanut butter!' and he throws the sandwich down the sixty floors to the street."

  "I don't get it," Bush said, sipping at his coffee.

  "I'm not finished yet," Foster said, grinning, hardly able to contain his glee.

  "Go ahead," Carella said.

  "He reaches into the box," Foster said, "for the next sandwich. He very carefully unwraps the waxed paper. He bites into the sandwich. 'Goddamn!' he says again, 'peanut butter!' and he flings that second sandwich down the sixty floors to the street."

  "Yeah," Carella said.

  "He opens the third sandwich," Foster said. "This time it's ham. This time he likes it. He eats the sandwich all up."

  "This is gonna go on all night," Bush said. "You shoulda stood in bed, Dave."

  "No, wait a minute, wait a minute," Foster said. "He opens.the fourth sandwich. He bites into it. 'Goddamn!' he says again, 'peanut butter!' and he flings that sandwich too down the sixty floors to the street. Well, there's another construction worker sitting on a girder just a little bit above this fellow. He looks down and says, 'Say, fellow, I've been watching you with them sandwiches.'

  "'So what?' the first guy says.

  "'You married?' the second guy asks.

  "'Yes, I'm married."

  "The second guy shakes his head. 'How long you been married?"

  "Ten years," the first guy says.

  "'And your wife still doesn't know what kind of sandwiches you like?'

  'The first guy points his finger up at the guy above him and yells, "Listen, you son of a bitch, leave my wife out of this. I made those goddamn sandwiches myself!'"

  Carella burst out laughing, almost choking on his coffee. Bush stared at Foster dead-panned.

  "I still don't get it," Bush said. "What's so funny about a guy married ten years whose wife doesn't know what kind of sandwiches he likes? That's not funny. That's a tragedy."

  "He made the sandwiches himself," Foster said.

  "So then it's a psycho joke. Psycho jokes don't appeal to me. You got to be nuts to appreciate a psycho joke."

  "I appreciate it," Carella said.

  "So? That proves my point," Bush answered.

  "Hank didn't get enough sleep," Carella said to Foster. Foster winked.

  "I got plenty of sleep," Bush said.

  "Ah-ha," Carella said. "Then that explains it."

  "What the hell do you mean by that?" Bush said, annoyed.

  "Oh, forget it. Drink your coffee."

  "A man doesn't get a joke, right away his sex life gets dragged in. Do I ask you how much sleep you get or don't get?"

  "No," Carella said.

  "Okay. Okay."

  One of the patrolmen walked into the Squad Room. "Desk sergeant asked me to give you this," he said. "Just came up from Downtown."

  "Probably that Coroner's report," Carella said, taking the manila envelope. "Thanks."

  The patrolman nodded and went out. Carella opened the envelope.

  "Is it?" Foster asked.

  "Yeah. Something else, too." He pulled a card from the envelope. "Oh, report on the slugs they dug out of the theatre booth."

  "Let's see it," Hank said.

  Carella handed him the card.

  BULLET

  Calibre: .45 Weight: 230 grms. Twist: 16L No. of Grooves: 6

  Deceased: Michael Reardon Date: July 24

  Remarks: Remington bullet taken from wooden booth behind body of Michael Reardon .

  "Argh, so what does it tell us?" Bush said, still smarting from the earlier badinage.

  "Nothing," Carella answered, "until we get the gun that fired it."

  "What about the Coroner's report?" Foster asked.

  Carella slipped it out of the envelope.

  CORONER'S PRELIMINARY AUTOPSY REPORT

  MICHAEL REARDON

  Male, apparent age 42; chronological age 38. Approximate weight 210 pounds; height 28.9 cm.

  Gross Inspection

  HEAD: 1.0 x 1.25 cm circular perforation visible 3.1 centimeters laterally to the left of external occipital protuberance (inion). Wound edges slightly inverted. Flame zone and second zone reveal heavy embedding of powder grains. A number 22 catheter inserted through the wound in the occipital region of the skull transverses ventrally and emerges through the right orbit Point of emergence has left a gaping rough-edged wound measuring 3.7 centimeters in diameter.

  There is a second perforation located 6.2 centimeters laterally to the left of the tip of the right mastoid process of the temporal bone, measuring 1.0 x 1.33 centimeters. A number 22 catheter inserted through this second wound passes anteriorly and ventrally and emerges through a perforation measuring approximately 3.5 centimeters in diameter through the right maxilla. The edges of the remaining portion of the right maxilla are splintered.

  BODY: Gross inspection of remaining portion of body is negative for demonstrable pathology.

  REMARKS: On craniotomy with brain examination, there is evidence of petechiae along course of projectile; small splinters of cranial bone are embedded within the brain substance.

  MICROSCOPIC: Examination of brain reveals minute petechiae as well as bone substance within brain matter. Microscopic examination of brain tissue is essentially negative for pathology.

  "He did a good job, the bastard," Foster said. "Yeah," Bush answered.

  Carella sighed and looked at his watch. "It's going to be a long night, fellers," he said.

  Chapter SIX

  he had not seen Teddy Franklin since Mike took the slugs.

  Generally, in the course of running down something, he would drop in to see her, spending a few minutes with her before rushing off again. And, of course, he spent all his free time with her because he was in love with the girl.

  He had met her less than six months ago, when she'd been working
addressing envelopes for a small firm on the fringe of the precinct territory. The firm reported a burglary, and Carella had been assigned to it. He had been taken instantly with her buoyant beauty, asked her out, and that had been the beginning. He had also, in the course of investigation, cracked the burglary—but that didn't seem important now. The important thing now was Teddy. Even the firm had gone the way of most small firms, fading into the abyss of a corporate dissolution, leaving her without a job but with enough saved money to maintain herself for a while. He honestly hoped it would only be for a while, a short while at that. This was the girl he wanted to marry. This was the girl he wanted for his own.

  Thinking of her, thinking of the progression of slow traffic lights which kept him from racing to her side, he cursed Ballistics Reports and Coroner's Reports, and people who shot cops in the back of the head, and he cursed the devilish instrument known as the telephone and the fact that the instrument was worthless with a girl like Teddy. He glanced at his watch. It was close to midnight, and she didn't know he was coming, but he'd take the chance, anyway. He wanted to see her.

  When he reached her apartment building in Riverhead, he parked the car and locked it The street was very quiet. The building was old and sedate, covered with lush ivy. A few windows blinked wide-eyed at the stifling heat of the night, but most of the tenants were asleep or trying to sleep. He glanced up at her window, pleased when he saw the light was still burning. Quickly, he mounted the steps, stopping outside her door.

  He did not knock.

  Knocking was no good with Teddy.

  He took the knob in his hand and twisted it back and forth, back and forth. In a few moments, he heard her footsteps, and then the door opened a crack, and then the door opened wide.

  She was wearing prisoner pajamas, white-and-black striped cotton top and pants she'd picked up as a gag. Her hair was raven black, and the light in the foyer put a high sheen onto it. He closed the door behind him, and she went instantly into his arms, and then she moved back from him, and he marveled at the expressiveness of her eyes and her mouth. There was joy in her eyes, pure soaring joy. Her lips parted, edging back over small white teeth, and then she lifted her face to his, and he took her kiss, and he felt the warmth of her body beneath the cotton pajamas.

  "Hello," he said, and she kissed the words on his mouth, and then broke away, holding only his hand, pulling him into the warmly-lighted living room.

  She held her right index finger alongside her face, calling for his attention.