Eight Black Horses

CHAPTER SEVEN

Carella got to the squadroom forty minutes after Hawes called him. Officially the homicide in the park was his and Brown’s, and Hawes had called them both at home the moment Josie Sears came into the office with her story. She was only fourteen years old, and the law specified that juveniles could not be interviewed or interrogated anywhere in the proximity of adult offenders. Hawes had talked to her initially in Lieutenant Byrnes’s empty office. That was where Carella found them at ten minutes to four that Thanksgiving Day.

Hawes looked like a sunset against the gunmetal gray of the sky outside. He stood by the meshed window in the lieutenant’s corner office, his red hair streaked with white over the left temple, a purple tie hanging on what appeared to be a lavender shirt with a little polo pony over the left pectoral muscle. He was dressed for his date with Annie Rawles, for which he was already late. He had hoped to be out of here by a quarter to four, at which time the shift was relieved. Genero had shot out of the squadroom like a launch from Canaveral. Hawes was stuck with a fourteen-year-old girl who’d maybe witnessed a man carrying a body on the night of October 24.

‘So you got this now?’ he asked Carella.

‘I’ve got it.’

‘See you,’ Hawes said, and disappeared.

Carella looked at the young, dark-eyed, dark-haired girl sitting in the chair opposite the lieutenant’s desk. ‘I’m Detective Carella,’ he said. ‘Detective Hawes told me on the phone that you saw something happen in the park last month, I wonder if...’

‘Well, I didn’t see anything happen, actually,’ Josie said.

‘As I understand it, you saw a man carrying a dead body.’

‘Well, I guess she was dead,’ Josie said. She was biting the cuticles on her right hand. Carella squelched a fatherly urge to tell her to quit doing that.

‘Can you tell me what you did see?’ he asked gently.

‘This man parked his car on the service road...’

‘You saw him parking his car?’

‘No, but I heard the car come in, and then the engine went off.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘And then he walked past us on the...’

She stopped suddenly.

‘Yes?’

‘We were on this sort of rock. Above the path,’ Josie said.

‘Who?’ Carella said. ‘You and who?’

‘Me and this boy.’

‘I see. What time was this, Josie?’

‘Around one o’clock.’

‘One o’clock in the morning?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Go on.’

‘And this man came by,’ Josie said, and shrugged.

‘What did he look like, this man?’

‘He was tall and blond.’

‘Was he wearing a hearing aid?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see any hearing aid.’

Of all the detectives on the squad Carella and Willis were the only ones who’d ever seen the Deaf Man face to face. Willis had glimpsed him only fleetingly, in the midst of a shoot-out in the back of a tailor shop. But Carella had remembered him from their first meeting...

The Deaf Man turning from the hi-fi unit against the living room wall, Carella seeing the hearing aid in the right ear and then the shotgun in his hands. And suddenly it was too late, suddenly the shotgun exploded into sound. Carella whirled away from the blast. He could hear the whistling pellets as they screamed across the confined space of the apartment, and then he felt them lash into his shoulder like a hundred angry wasp, as he fired a shot at the tall blond man who was already sprinting across the apartment toward him. His shoulder felt suddenly numb. He tried to lift the hand the gun and quickly found he couldn‘t and just as he shifted the gun to his left hand and triggered off another shot, high and wide as the Deaf Man raised the shotgun and swung the stock at Carella’s head. A single barrel, Carella thought in the instant before the stock collided with the side of his head, a single barrel, no time to reload, and a sudden flashing explosion of rocketing yellow pain, slam the stock again, suns revolving, a universe slam the stock. . .

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Brown said, coming into the office and closing the door behind him.

‘This is my partner, Detective Brown,’ Carella said. ‘Artie, this is Josie Sears. She was just telling me what she saw in the park last month.’ He turned to Josie. ‘That was on October twenty-fourth, is that right?’

‘Well, the twenty-fifth, actually,’ she said. ‘It was one o’clock in the morning, you know.’

‘Right,’ Carella said. ‘And this tall blond man you just described...’

‘Was he wearing a hearing aid?’ Brown asked at once.

‘I didn’t see any,’ Josie said. She was looking at Brown, remembering all the things her father had said about niggers and wondering if he was a genuine detective. She didn’t want to be telling any nigger about what she and Eddie had been doing when she saw the man carrying the body. She hoped they wouldn’t ask her what she and Eddie had been doing.

‘What was he doing?’ Carella asked.

For a panicky moment she thought he was referring to Eddie. Then she realized he meant the man she’d seen.

‘He was carrying a girl over his shoulder,’ Josie said.

‘What color was she?’ Brown asked.

‘White,’ Josie said, and wondered if that was a trick question.

‘What color hair did she have?’ Brown asked.

‘Blond.’

‘How old would you say she was?’ Carella asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you called her a girl.’

‘Well, yeah. I mean, she didn’t look like a lady, if that’s what you mean. Not like my mother or anything.’

‘How old is your mother?’ Carella asked.

‘Thirty-eight,’ Josie said.

He almost sighed. ‘And this woman was younger than that?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you estimate how old she was?’

‘Well, in her twenties, I guess. I only had that glimpse of her when they passed the light.’

‘How far away from you were they? This man and woman.’

‘Five feet, something like that.’

‘You were where?’ Brown asked.

‘On this rock. Above the path.’

‘Doing what?’ Brown asked.

Here we go, Josie thought.

‘Sitting with this boy,’ she said.

‘What boy?’

‘A boy I know.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Eddie.’

‘Eddie what?’

‘Hogan.’

‘Did he see this man, too? This man carrying a woman over his shoulder?’

‘No, he ... he didn’t see her.’

‘He was sitting with you, wasn’t he?’ Brown asked.

‘Yes, but...’

‘Both of you five feet from where the man...’

‘His eyes were closed,’ Josie said.

‘Eddie’s eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he sleeping?’

‘No, but his eyes were closed.’

Josie looked away. Brown looked at Carella. Carella nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘So you’re the only one who saw this man carrying the woman,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘And you say you guess she was dead. What made you think that?’

‘There was blood at the back of her head.’

‘Where?’

‘Right here,’ Josie said, and lifted her hair and touched the nape of her neck.

‘You saw blood?’

‘Yes.’

‘At the back of her head?’

‘Yes. Her head was hanging down, you know? He was carrying her over his shoulder with her head hanging down. And her hair was hanging, too, and I could see blood at the back of her head.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, he just kept walking. I mean, I didn’t see him after that.’

‘Where was this?’ Brown asked. ‘What part of the park?’

‘You know where the service road is?’ Josie said. ‘Near Macomber?’

‘Yes?’

‘Right near there. The entrance there. We were a little bit past the service road. That’s how come I heard the car when it drove in.’

‘Did Eddie hear the car?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Didn’t hear the car, didn’t see the man.’

‘No.’

‘But he wasn’t sleeping.’

‘No, he was awake.’

Wide awake, she thought, and remembered the salty taste in her mouth.

‘So you were near the Macomber Street service road,’ Carella said.

‘Yes.’

‘About ten blocks west of here.’

‘Well, whatever.’

‘When the man walked off, did he head in this direction? Or did he go west?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was he heading toward the police station here or away from it?’

‘Toward it.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Well, I yelled to Jessica...’

‘Who’s Jessica?’ Brown asked.

‘My girlfriend. She was with another boy.’

‘Same place?’

‘Well, I don’t know where exactly. But nearby.’

‘Did she see this man?’

‘No.’

‘Did her boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, you yelled to Jessica...’

‘Yes, and we went to look at the car. The one that came in the service road.’

‘You saw the car?’ Carella said.

‘Yes. A blue car. Eddie said it was a Buick Century.’

‘Did you happen to look at the license plate?’

‘I did.’

‘Would you happen to remember...?’

‘WL-seven,’ Josie said, ‘eight-one-six-four.’

Brown and Carella looked at each other in surprise.

‘Are you sure that’s the number?’ Carella asked.

‘Positive.’

‘You wrote it down?’ Brown asked.

‘I memorized it,’ Josie said.

‘Smart girl,’ Carella said, and smiled.

* * * *

It was beginning to snow lightly.

Naomi stood under the lamppost across the street from the old house and wondered for perhaps the tenth time whether she should go in or not. Her shrink, whom she used to see three years ago, would have said she was conflicted. That had been one of Dr. Hammerstein’s favorite words, ‘conflicted.’ If she couldn’t decide between the vanilla or the chocolate ice cream, that was because she was conflicted. She once protested about his use of the word ‘conflicted,’ and he said, ‘Good, ve are making progress.’ That wasn’t what he’d really said, he didn’t even have a German accent. But Naomi always thought of him as having a German accent.

The house across the street looked cozy and warm.

Well, Thanksgiving.

The reason Naomi felt conflicted was because she didn’t want to lay this heavy stuff on this bastard Carella’s wife, but at the same time nobody should have the right to do to her what he’d done to her, which she wouldn’t have let him do if she’d known he was married, which he’d lied about. A cop, no less! A detective! Lying to her, taking advantage of her, doing disgusting things to her, and then not even calling her again. She’d called every damn Carella in the Isola phone book and had come down six Carellas in the Riverhead directory before she’d struck pay dirt earlier today with T. F. Carella. Who the hell was T. F. Carella? Was Steve even his right name? She’d never have gone to bed with somebody who didn’t even give a person his right name. A married man. She’d never have gone to bed with a married man who’d picked her up in a bar. Well, maybe she would have. Isadora Wing went to bed with married men, didn’t she? That wasn’t the point. This wasn’t a question of her own morality here, this was a question of whether a man sworn to uphold the laws of the city, state, and nation should be allowed to get away with not calling up a person after the person had allowed him to do such things to her. You weren’t even supposed to take your gun out of your holster without justification, were you? No less what he had done with it.

She could imagine telling that to Hammerstein.

Ja? Dat is very inner-estink. Are you avare vot a symbol der gun is?

She wondered what Hammerstein was doing these days, the crazy old bastard.

Conflicted, she thought, and started across the street toward the house.

The snow was sticking. She shouldn’t have come all the way up here. If the snow got really bad, it would raise hell with mass transit. Well, some things simply had to be done. One thing she’d learned about being conflicted was that if you took action, the confliction disappeared. Better you than me, Steve, she thought, and knocked on the door.

A short fat lady with blue hair answered it.

Is this his wife? Naomi thought. No wonder he picks up girls in bars.

‘Yes?’ the woman said.

‘I’m looking for Steve Carella,’ Naomi said.

‘I’m sorry, he’s not here just now,’ the woman said.

‘He was here an hour and a half ago,’ Naomi said. ‘He was here having coffee with his wife.’

The woman studied her more closely.

‘Are you the person who called here?’ she asked.

‘I’m the person who called here,’ Naomi said. ‘I’m Naomi Schneider. Are you his wife?’

‘No, I’m not his...’

Another woman appeared suddenly behind her. Dark eyes and hair the color of a raven’s wing, good breasts and legs, an inquisitive look on her face. God, she’s gorgeous! Naomi thought. Why is that son of a bitch fooling around?

‘Mrs. Carella?’ she asked.

The woman nodded.

‘I’m Naomi Schneider,’ she said. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your husband. May I come in?’

The other woman was studying her mouth as she spoke. All at once, Naomi realized she was deaf. Oh God, she thought, what am I doing here? But the woman was gesturing her into the house.

She stepped inside.

I’m going to bring this house down around your ears, Steve, she thought, and followed the woman into the living room.

* * * *

The man from Motor Vehicles got back to them not ten minutes after they’d called.

‘Blue Buick Century,’ he said, ‘tag number WL-seven, eight-one-six-four. Registered to a Dr. Harold Lasser, One-twenty-seven Hall avenue.’

‘One-twenty-seven ...’ Carella repeated, writing.

‘This is marked with an “Auto” flag,’ the man from Motor Vehicles said. ‘May have been recovered by now, I don’t know. You’d better check with them.’

‘Thanks,’ Carella said.

* * * *

Teddy listened motionless as Naomi told her all about the man she’d met in a bar some three weeks ago, a man she claimed was Steve Carella. Detective Carella had told her he was not married. They had gone to her apartment afterward. Naomi detailed all the things they had done together in her apartment, her eyes unflinching, the words spilling soundlessly from her lips. They had spent the entire weekend together. He had told her he wanted her to go to work on Monday morning without anything under her...

Teddy held up her hand. Not quite like a traffic cop, but with much the same effect. She rose, crossed the room to a rolltop desk standing near a Tiffany-type floor lamp, and took from it a pencil and pad. She walked back to where Naomi was sitting.

On the pad she wrote: Are you sure the name was Detective Stephen Louis Carella?

‘He didn’t give me his full name,’ Naomi said. ‘He just said Steve Carella.’

Did he say where he worked? Teddy wrote.

Naomi began talking again.

Teddy watched her lips.

The man—she kept referring to him as ‘your husband’—had told her he worked uptown at the Eight-Seven, right across the street from Grover Park. He’d told her he was working a homicide he’d caught on the twenty-fifth of October. Dead woman in the park, about your age, he’d said.

‘I’m twenty-five,’ Naomi said, a challenging look on her face.

Told her the woman had been shot in the back of the head. Totally naked, not a stitch on her. Not much to go on, he’d told her, but we’re working on it.

How can she know all this? Teddy wondered.

On the pad she wrote: When was this?

‘November fourth,’ Naomi said. ‘A Friday night. He left on Monday morning, the seventh. When I went to work that morning—does your husband ask you to run around naked under your dress? Does he tie you to the bed and stick his goddamn...’

Teddy held up the traffic-cop hand again. She rose and went to the desk again. She picked up her appointment calendar. On Friday night, November 4, she and Carella had had dinner with Bert Kling and his girlfriend, Eileen. They had talked about the plastic surgery Eileen was considering. It had been painful for Eileen to discuss the scar a rapist had put on her left cheek. On Saturday, November 5, she and Carella had taken the kids to see a magic show downtown. On Sunday, November 6, they had gone to visit Carella’s parents. She went back to where Naomi was sitting. On the pad she wrote. Please wait, and then went down the hall to fetch Fanny.

* * * *

The man at Auto Theft said, ‘This vehicle is still missing, Carella.’

‘When was it stolen?’ Carella asked.

‘We got it down for October twenty-third.’

‘From what location?’

‘Outside the doctor’s office. One-twenty-seven Hall.’

‘What time?’

‘Six p.m. Well, that’s when he discovered it was missing. He was going home from work, thought at first it might’ve been towed way by us. He had it parked in a no-parking zone. He called Traffic, they told him they hadn’t towed his fuckin’ car away, and he shouldn’t have parked it in a no-parking zone to begin with. He told them he was an M.D. Big deal. They told him to call Auto, which is what he done. Anyway it ain’t been recovered yet.’

‘Thanks,’ Carella said.

* * * *

‘Mrs. Carella would like me to translate for her,’ Fanny said. She looked at Naomi sternly, her arms folded across her ample bosom. ‘Save a lot of time that way.’

‘Fine,’ Naomi said, looking just as stern.

Teddy’s fingers moved.

Fanny watched them and then said, ‘This man who picked you up wasn’t my husband.’

‘Your husband?’ Naomi said, looking suddenly puzzled.

‘Mrs. Carella’s husband,’ Fanny said. ‘I’m translating exactly what she signs.’

Teddy’s fingers were moving again.

‘My husband and I were together on the weekend you’re talking about,’ Fanny said.

‘You’re trying to protect him,’ Naomi said directly to Teddy.

Teddy’s fingers moved.

‘What did this man look like?’ Fanny asked.

‘He was tall and blond...’

Watching Teddy’s hands, Fanny said, ‘My husband has brown hair.’

‘What color eyes does he have?’ Naomi asked.

‘Brown,’ Fanny said, ahead of Teddy’s fingers.

Naomi blinked. She realized all at once that she couldn’t remember what color his eyes were. Damn it, what color were his eyes? ‘Does he wear a hearing aid?’ she asked in desperation.

This time Teddy blinked.

‘No, he doesn’t wear no damn hearing aid,’ Fanny said, though Teddy hadn’t signed a thing. ‘You’ve got the wrong man. Now what I suggest you do is get out of here before I...’

Teddy was signing again. Very rapidly. Fanny could hardly keep up.

‘This man you met is a criminal,’ Fanny said, translating. ‘My husband will want to talk to you. Will you please wait here for him? We’ll call him at once.’

Naomi nodded.

She suddenly felt as if she were in a spy novel.

* * * *

Carella did not get back to the house until six that night.

Naomi Schneider was still waiting there for him. Fanny had brought her a cup of tea, and she was sitting in the living room, her legs crossed, chatting with Teddy as Fanny translated, the two of them behaving like old college roommates, Teddy’s hands and eyes flashing, her face animated.

Naomi thought Carella was very good-looking, and wondered immediately if he fooled around. She was happy when Teddy excused herself to see how the children were doing. Twins, she explained with her hands as Carella translated. A boy and a girl. Mark and April. Ten years old. Naomi listened with great interest, thinking a good-looking man like this, burdened with a handicapped wife and a set of twins, probably did play around a little on the side. She waited for Fanny to leave the room, grateful when she did. She was going to enjoy telling the real Steve Carella all about what the fake Steve Carella had done to her. She wanted to see the expression on his face when she told him.

The real Steve Carella didn’t want to know what the fake Steve Carella had done to her.

Instead he started questioning her like a detective.

Which he was, of course, but even so.

“Tell me exactly what he looked like,’ he said.

‘He was tall and...’

‘How tall?’

‘Six-one, six-two?’

‘Weight?’

‘A hundred and eighty?’

‘Color of his eyes?’

‘Well, actually I don’t remember. But he did terrible things to...’

‘Any scars or tattoos?’

‘I didn’t see any,’ Naomi said. ‘Not anywhere on his body.’ She lowered her eyes like a maiden, the way she had learned in her magazines.

‘Did he say where he lived?’

‘No.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Oh, I thought you meant when he was doing all those...’

‘When you met him.’

‘A gray suit,’ she said. ‘Sort of a nubby fabric. An off-white shirt, a dark blue tie. Black shoes. A gold Rolex watch, all gold, not the steel and gold one. A gun in a shoulder holster. He used the gun to...’

‘What kind of gun?’

‘A Colt Detective Special.’

‘You know guns, do you?’

‘That’s what he told me it was. This was just before he...’

‘And you met him where?’

‘In a bar near where I work. I work for CBS. On Monday morning, when I went to work, he forced me to...’

‘What’s the name of the bar?’

‘The Corners.’

‘Where is it?’

‘On Detavoner and Ash. On the corner there.’

‘Do you go there a lot?’

‘Oh, every now and then. I’ll probably drop by there tomorrow after work.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘You ought to check it out,’ she said.

‘Had you ever seen him in that bar before?’

‘Never.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘Well, I would have noticed. He was very good-looking.’

‘Did he seem familiar with the neighborhood?’

‘Well, we didn’t discuss the neighborhood. What we talked about mostly, he gave me sixty seconds to finish my drink, you see, because he was in such a hurry to...’

‘Did you get the impression he knew the neighborhood well?’

‘I got the feeling he knew his way around, yes.’

‘Around that particular neighborhood?’

‘Well, the city. I got the feeling he knew the city. When we were driving toward my apartment later, he knew exactly how to get there.’

‘You drove there in his car?’

‘Yes.’

‘What kind of car?’

‘A Jaguar.’

‘He was driving a Jaguar?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t find that surprising? A detective driving a Jaguar?’

‘Well, I don’t know any detectives,’ she said. ‘You’re only my second detective. My first, as a matter of fact, since he wasn’t a real detective, was he?’

‘What year was it?’

‘What?’

‘The Jag.’

‘Oh. I don’t know.’

‘What color?’

‘Gray. A four-door sedan. Gray with red leather upholstery.’

‘I don’t suppose you noticed the license plate number.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I was sort of excited, you see. He was a very exciting man. Of course, later, when he started doing all those things to me...’

‘And you say he knew how to get there? From the bar on Detavoner and Ash to where you live?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Where do you live, Miss Schneider?’

‘On Colby and Radner. Near the circle there. If you’d like to come over later, I can show you…’

‘Did you ask him for any sort of identification? A shield? An ID card?’

‘Well, when he was undressing, I said, “Let me see your badge.” But I was just kidding around, you know. It never occurred to me that he might not be a real detective.’

‘Did he show you a badge?’

‘Well, what he said was, “Here’s my badge, baby.” And showed me his ... you know.’

‘You simply accepted him as a cop, is that right?’

‘Well ... yeah. I’d never met a cop before. Not socially. Of course, you must meet a lot of young, attractive women in your line of work, but I’ve never had the opportunity to...’

‘Did he say anything about coming back to that bar? The Corners?’

‘No, he just said he’d call me.’

‘But he never did.’

‘No. Actually I’m glad he didn’t. Now that I know he wasn’t a real detective. And, also, I might never have got to meet you, you know?’

‘Miss Schneider,’ Carella said, ‘if he does call you, I want you to contact me at once. Here’s my card,’ he said, and reached into his wallet. ‘I’ll jot down my home number, too, so you’ll have it...’

‘Well, I already know your home number,’ she said, but he had begun writing.

‘Just so you’ll have it handy,’ he said, and gave the card to her.

‘Well, I doubt if he’ll call me,’ she said. ‘It’s already three weeks, almost.’

‘Well, in case he does.’

He looked suddenly very weary. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch his hair, smooth it back, comfort him. She was certain he would be very different in bed than the fake Steve Carella had been. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be in bed with both of them at the same time.

‘How are you getting home?’ he asked.

End of interview, she thought.

Or was he making his move?

‘By subway,’ she said, and smiled at him. ‘Unless someone offers to drive me home.’

‘I’ll call the local precinct,’ he said. ‘See if I can’t get a car to take you down.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Thanksgiving Day, they might not be too busy.’

He rose and started for the phone.

‘Miss Schneider,’ he said, dialing, ‘I really appreciate the information you’ve given me.’

Yeah, she thought, so why the fuck don’t you come home with me?

* * * *

The man who arrived at the station house at a quarter past eight that night was wearing a shabby overcoat and a dilapidated felt hat. The desk sergeant on duty looked at the envelope he handed across the muster desk, saw that it was addressed to Detective Stephen Louis Carella, and immediately said, ‘Where’d you get this?’ The Deaf Man was famous around here. There wasn’t a cop in the precinct who didn’t know about those pictures hanging on the bulletin board upstairs.

‘Huh?’ the man said.

‘Where’d you get this?’

‘Guy up the street handed it to me.’

‘What guy?’

‘Guy up the street. Blond guy with a hearing aid.’

‘What?’ the desk sergeant said.

‘You deaf, too?’ the man said.

‘What’s your name?’ the desk sergeant asked.

‘Pete MacArthur. What’s yours?’

‘Don’t get smart with me, mister,’ the desk sergeant said.

‘What is this?’ MacArthur said. ‘Guy gives me five bucks, asks me to deliver this for him, that’s a crime?’

‘Sit down on the bench over there,’ the desk sergeant said.

‘What for?’

‘Sit down till I tell you it’s okay to go.’

He picked up a phone and buzzed the squadroom. A detective named Santoro picked up the phone.

‘We got another one,’ the desk sergeant said.

‘There ain’t no mail deliveries today,’ Santoro said.

‘This one came by hand.’

‘Who delivered it?’

‘A guy named Pete MacArthur.’

‘Hold him there,’ Santoro said.

Santoro talked to MacArthur until they were both blue in the face. MacArthur kept repeating the same thing over and over again. A tall blond guy wearing a hearing aid had handed him the envelope and offered him five bucks to deliver it here. He’d never seen the guy before in his life. He’d taken the five bucks because he figured an envelope so skinny couldn’t have a bomb in it and also because it was a cold, snowy night, and he thought maybe he could find an open liquor store, even though it was Thanksgiving, and buy himself a bottle of wine. Santoro figured MacArthur was telling the truth. Only an exceedingly stupid accomplice would march right into a police station. He took his address—which happened to be a bench in Grover Park—told him to keep his nose clean, and sent him on his way.

These days Carella’s mail was everybody’s mail.

Santoro took the envelope up to the squadroom and opened it.

He looked at what was inside, shrugged, and then tacked it to the bulletin board:

* * * *