Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

7

“The Jesus Case,” as it was playfully dubbed by the heathens of the 87th Squad, was going nowhere very quickly. The dead man had still not been identified, and Carella knew that, unless a positive identification was made within the next few days, the case was in danger of being buried as deep as the corpse had been. Until they knew who he was, until they could say with certainty that this man with this name was slain by person or persons unknown, why then he would remain only what Dr. Cortez had labeled him last Monday: a corpse. Labels. A corpse. Anonymous. A lifeless heap of human rubble, unmissed, unreported, unidentified when it was buried in the municipal cemetery. There were too many murder victims in the city, all of them with names and addresses and relatives and histories. It was too much to ask of any overworked police department that it should spend valuable time trying to find the murderer of someone who had namelessly roamed the streets. A cipher never evokes much sympathy.

On Thursday morning, as Carella made his way from shop to shop in the Harrison Street area, it began raining heavily. The Jesus Case was now four days old. Carella knew that, unless he came up with something soon, the case would be thrown into the squad’s Open File. For all intents and purposes, such disposition would mean that the case was closed. Not solved, merely closed until something accidentally turned up on it weeks or months or years later, if ever. The idea of burying the case a scant two days after the body itself had been buried was extremely distasteful to Carella. Aside from his revulsion for the brutality of the crucifixion (if such it could be called; there had, after all, been no cross involved), Carella suspected that something deeper within him was being touched. He had not been inside a church since the day his sister got married, more than thirteen years ago, but he felt vague stirrings now, memories of priests with thuribles, the heavy musk of incense, altar boys in white, the crucified form of Jesus Christ high above the altar. He had not been a religious child, nor was he a religious man. But the murdered man was curiously linked in his mind to the spiritual concept of someone dying for humanity, and he could not accept the idea that the man in the abandoned tenement had died for nothing at all.

The rain swept the pavements like machine-gun fire in some gray disputed no-man’s land. A jagged lance of lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled Carella to his shoelaces. He ran for the nearest shop, threw open the door, shook water from his trench coat, and mopped his head with a handkerchief. Only then did he look around him. He first thought he was in an art gallery having a one-man show. He then realized he was in a sculptor’s shop, the artist’s work displayed on long tables and shelves, female nudes of various sizes sculpted in wood and stone, cast in plaster and bronze. The work was quite good, or at least it seemed so to Carella. Naturalistic, almost photographic, the nudes sat or stood or lay on their sides in frozen three-dimensional realism, some of them no larger than a fist, others standing some three or four feet tall. The artist had used the same model for all of the pieces, an obviously young girl, tall and slender, with small well-formed breasts and narrow hips, long hair trailing halfway down her back. The effect was of being in a mirrored room that reflected the same girl in a dozen different poses, shrinking her to less than human size and capturing her life force in materials firmer than flesh. Carella was studying one of the statues more closely when a man came out of the back room.

The man was in his late twenties, a tall blond man with dark brown eyes and a leonine head. He was on crutches. His left leg was heavily bandaged. A tattered white tennis sneaker was on his right foot.

There were, Carella surmised, possibly ten thousand men in this city at this moment who were wearing white tennis sneakers on their right feet, their left feet, and perhaps even both feet. He did not know how many of them had a shop on King’s Circle, though, four blocks from Harrison Street, where a boy had been nailed to the wall five days ago, and where a left-footed tennis sneaker had been found in an empty apartment down the hall.

“Yes, sir?” the man said. “May I help you?”

“I’m a police officer,” Carella said.

“Uh-huh,” the man said.

“Detective Carella, 87th Squad.”

“Uh-huh,” he said again. He did not ask for identification, and Carella did not show any.

“I’m investigating a homicide,” he said.

“I see.” The man nodded, and then hobbled on his crutches to one of the long tables. He sat on the edge of it, beside a sculpture of his slender young model at repose in bronze, legs crossed, head bent, eyes downcast like a naked nun. “My name’s Sanford Elliot,” he said. “Sandy, everybody calls me. Who was killed?”

“We don’t know. That’s why I’ve been going around the neighborhood.”

“When did it happen?” Elliot asked.

“Last Sunday night.”

“I was out of town last Sunday,” Elliot said, and Carella suddenly wondered why he felt compelled to establish an alibi for a murder that had thus far been discussed only in the most ambiguous terms.

“Really?” Carella said. “Where were you?”

“Boston. I went up to Boston for the weekend.”

“Nice up there,” Carella said.

“Yes.”

“Anyway, I’ve been showing a picture of the victim...”

“I don’t know too many people in the neighborhood,” Elliot said. “I’ve only been here in the city since January. I keep mostly to myself. Do my work in the studio back there, and try to sell it out front here. I don’t know too many people.”

“Well, lots of people come in and out of the shop, don’t they?” Carella said.

“Oh, sure. But unless they buy one of my pieces, I never get to know their names. You see what I mean?”

“Sure,” Carella said. “Why don’t you take a look at the picture, anyway?”

“Well, if you like. It won’t do any good, though. I really don’t know too many people around here.”

“Are you from Boston originally?”

“What?”

“You said you went up to Boston, I figured...”

“Oh. No, I’m from Oregon. But I went to art school up there. School of Fine Arts at B.U. Boston University.”

“And you say you were up there Sunday?”

“That’s right. I went up to see some friends. I’ve got a lot of friends in the Boston area.”

“But not too many around here.”

“No, not around here.”

“Did you hurt your leg before you went to Boston, or after you came back?”

“Before.”

“Went up there on crutches, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Did you drive up?”

“A friend drove me.”

“Who?”

“The girl who poses for me.” He made a vague gesture at the pieces of sculpture surrounding them.

“What’s wrong with the leg, anyway?” Carella asked.

“I had an accident.”

“Is it broken?”

“No. I sprained the ankle.”

“Those can be worse than a break, sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s what the doctor said.”

“Who’s the doctor?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“Well,” Elliot said, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“You’re right,” Carella said, “it isn’t. Would you mind looking at this picture?”

“I mean,” Elliot said, gathering steam, “I’ve given you a lot of time as it is. I was working when you came in. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m...”

“I’m sorry,” Carella said. “If you’ll just look at this picture...”

“I won’t know who he is, anyway,” Elliot said. “I hardly know any of the guys in this neighborhood. Most of my friends are up in Boston.”

“Well, take a look,” Carella said, and handed him the photograph.

“No, I don’t know him,” Elliot said, and handed it back almost at once.

Carella put the photograph into his notebook, turned up the collar of his coat, said, “Thanks,” and went out into the rain. It was coming down in buckets; he was willing to forsake the goddamn May flowers. He began running the instant he hit the street, and did not stop until he reached the open diner on the corner. Inside, he expelled his breath in the exaggerated manner of all people who have run through rain and finally reached shelter, took off his trench coat, hung it up, and sat at the counter. A waitress slouched over and asked him what he wanted. He ordered a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish.

There was a lot that bothered him about Sanford Elliot.

He was bothered by the tattered white tennis sneaker, and he was bothered by the fact that Elliot’s left foot was in bandages — or was it only coincidence that the sneaker they’d found was left-footed? He was bothered by the speedy alibi Elliot had offered for his whereabouts on the night of the murder, and bothered by the thought of a man on crutches taking a long car trip up to Boston, even if he was being driven by someone.

Why hadn’t Elliot been willing to tell him the name of his doctor? And how had Elliot known that the murder victim was a man? Even before Carella showed him the photograph, he had said, “I won’t know who he is, anyway.” He. When up to that time Carella had spoken of the dead man only as “the victim.”

Something else was bothering him.

The waitress put his cup of coffee on the counter, sloshing it into the saucer. He picked up his Danish, bit into it, put it down, lifted the coffee cup, slipped a paper napkin between cup and saucer, drank some coffee, and suddenly knew what was nudging his memory.

He debated going back to the shop.

Elliot had mentioned that he’d been working when Carella came in; the possibility existed that the girl was still with him. He decided instead to wait a while and talk to her alone, without Elliot there to prompt her.

He finished his coffee and Danish, called the squadroom to find out if there had been any messages, and was informed by Meyer that another manila envelope had arrived in the mail. Carella asked him to open it. When Meyer got back on the line, he said, “Well, what is it this time?”

“An airplane,” Meyer said.

“A what?”

“A picture of an airplane.”

“What kind of an airplane?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Meyer said.

It was Cotton Hawes who positively identified the airplane.

“That’s a Zero,” he said, looking at the photostat now pinned to the bulletin board at the end of the row that contained two pictures of J. Edgar Hoover and two pictures of George Washington. Hawes had been Chief Torpedoman aboard a PT boat throughout the war in the Pacific and presumably knew whereof he spoke; Meyer accepted his word without hesitation.

“But why?” he said.

“Who the hell knows? How does a picture of a Japanese fighter plane tie in with Hoover and Washington?”

“Maybe the Japanese are planning an attack on the FBI in Washington,” Meyer said.

“Right,” Hawes said. “Six squadrons of Zekes zooming in low over Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Pearl Harbor all over again.”

“Beginning of World War III.”

“Must be that,” Meyer said. “What else could it be?”

“And the Deaf Man, realizing we’re the nation’s only hope, is warning us and hoping we’ll sound the clarion.”

“Go sound the clarion, Cotton.”

“You know what I think?” Hawes said.

“Tell me, pray.”

“I think this time he’s putting us on. I don’t think there’s any connection at all between those stats.”

“Then why send them to us?”

“Because he’s a pain in the ass, plain and simple. He snips unrelated pictures out of newspapers, magazines, and books, has them photostated, and then mails them to us, hoping they’ll drive us crazy.”

“What about the threat he made?”

“What about it? Carella’s going to help him steal half a million bucks, huh? Fat chance of that happening.”

“Cotton?” Meyer said.

“Mmm?”

“If this was anybody else we were dealing with here, I would say, ‘Yes, you’re right, he’s a bedbug.’ But this is the Deaf Man. When the Deaf Man says he is going to do something, he does it. I don’t know what connection there is between those stats, but I know there is a connection, and I know he’s hoping we’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“Why?” Hawes said.

“Because once we figure it out, he’ll do something related but unrelated. Cotton...”

“Yes, Meyer?”

“Cotton,” Meyer said, and looked up seriously, and said with great intensity, “Cotton, this man is a diabolical fiend!”

“Steady now,” Hawes said.

“Cotton, I detest this man. Cotton, I wish I had never heard of this villain in my entire life.”

“Try to get hold of yourself,” Hawes said.

“How can we possibly figure out the associations his maniacal mind has concocted?”

“Look, Meyer, you’re letting this...”

“How can we possibly know what these images mean to him? Hoover, Washington, and a goddamn Jap Zero!” Meyer stabbed his finger at the photostat of the airplane. “Maybe that’s all he’s trying to tell us, Cotton.”

“What do you mean?”

“That so far we’ve got nothing. Zero. A big fat empty circle. Zero, zero, zero.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Hawes asked kindly.

Carella hit four apartment buildings on Porter Street before he found a mailbox listing for Henry Scaffale. He climbed the steps to the third floor, listened outside Apartment 32, heard voices inside but could not distinguish what they were saying. He knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked.

“Me,” Carella said. “Detective Carella.”

There was a short silence. Carella waited. He heard someone approaching the door. It opened a crack, and Bob Carmody looked out.

“Yes?” he said. “What do you want?”

“Mary Margaret here?”

“Maybe.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“Is she here?”

“Maybe you’d better come back with a warrant,” Bob said, and began closing the door.

Carella immediately wedged his foot into it, and said, “I can do that, Bob, but going all the way downtown isn’t going to sweeten my disposition by the time I get back. What do you say?”

“Let him in, Bob,” a girl’s voice said.

Bob scowled, opened the door, and stepped aside to let Carella in. Mary Margaret was sitting on a mattress on the floor. A chubby girl wearing a pink sweater and jeans was sitting beside her. Both girls had their backs to the wall. Hank was straddling a kitchen chair, his chin on his folded arms, watching Carella as he came into the room.

“Hello, Mary Margaret,” Carella said.

“Hello,” she answered without enthusiasm.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk,” she said.

“Privately.”

“Where would you suggest? There’s only this one room and a john.”

“How about the hallway?”

Mary Margaret shrugged, shoved her long hair back over her shoulders with both hands, rose with a dancer’s motion from her cross-legged position, and walked barefooted past Carella and into the hallway. Carella followed her out and closed the door behind them.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Do you pose for an artist named Sandy Elliot?”

“Why?” Mary Margaret asked. “Is that against the law? I’m nineteen years old.”

“No, it’s not against the law.”

“So, okay, I pose for him. How’d you know that?”

“I saw some of his work. The likeness is remarkable.” Carella paused. “Do you also drive for him?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you drive him up to Boston last weekend?”

“Yes,” Mary Margaret said.

“Were you posing for him today when I went to the shop?”

“I don’t know when you went to the shop.”

“Let’s take just the first part. Were you posing for him today?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“From ten o’clock on.”

“I was there about eleven.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sandy didn’t mention my visit?”

“No.”

“When did he hurt his leg, Mary Margaret?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you posed for him?”

“Before today, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Last Thursday.”

Carella took a small celluloid calendar from his wallet and looked at it. “That would be Thursday, the fifteenth.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Was he on crutches at that time?”

“Yes.”

“When did you pose for him before that?”

“I pose for him every Thursday morning.”

“Does that mean you posed for him on Thursday, April eighth?”

“Yes.”

“Was he on crutches then?”

“No.”

“So he hurt himself sometime between the eighth and the fifteenth, is that right?”

“I guess so. What difference does it make when he...?”

“Where’d you go in Boston?”

“Oh, around.”

“Around where?”

“I don’t know Boston too well. Sandy was giving me directions.”

“When did you leave here?”

“Friday.”

“Friday, the sixteenth?”

“Mmm.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, it was. Last Friday. Right.”

“What kind of car did you use?”

“Sandy’s.”

“Which is what?”

“Little Volkswagen.”

“Must have been uncomfortable. Crutches and all.”

“Mmm.”

“How long did it take you to get up there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Four, five hours. Something like that.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Here? The city?”

“Yes.”

“In the morning.”

“What time in the morning?”

“Nine? Ten? I don’t remember.”

“Did you come back down that night?”

“No. We stayed a few days. In Boston.”

“Where?”

“One of Sandy’s friends.”

“And came back when?”

“Late Monday night.”

“And today you posed for Sandy again.”

“That’s right.”

“How much does he pay you?”

Mary Margaret hesitated.

“How much does he pay you?” Carella asked again.

“Sandy’s my boyfriend,” she said. “He doesn’t pay me anything.”

“Where do you pose?”

“In the back of his shop. He’s got his studio there. In the back.”

“Are you living with him, Mary Margaret?”

“I live here. But I spend most of my time with Sandy.”

“Would you know the name of the doctor who treated his foot?”

“No.”

“What happened to it, anyway?”

“He had an accident.”

“Fell, did he?”

“Yes.”

“And tore the Achilles’ tendon, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Mary Margaret, do you think Sandy might have known that man in the picture I showed you?”

“Go ask Sandy.”

“I did.”

“So what did he say?”

“He said no.”

“Then I guess he didn’t know him.”

“Did you know him?”

“No.”

“You want to know what I think, Mary Margaret?”

“What?”

“I think Sandy was lying.”

Mary Margaret shrugged.

“I think you’re lying, too.”

“Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know yet,” Carella said.

He had been inside the apartment for perhaps twenty minutes when he heard a key turning in the lock. He knew that the Ungermans would be gone until the end of the week, and at first he thought the building superintendent was making an inopportune, routine check, but then he heard a man say, “Good to be home, eh, Karin?” and realized the Ungermans were back, and he was in the bedroom, and there were no exterior fire escapes; the only way out was through the front door, the way he had come in. He decided immediately that there was no percentage in waiting, the thing to do was make his move at once. The Ungermans were a couple in their late sixties, he would have no trouble getting past them, the difficult thing would be getting out of the building. They were moving toward the bedroom, Harry Ungerman carrying a pair of suitcases, his wife a step behind him, reaching up to take off her hat, when he charged them. He knocked Ungerman flat on his back, and then shoved out at Mrs. Ungerman, who reached out toward him for support, clutching at his clothes to keep from falling over backward the way her husband had done not ten seconds before. They danced an awkward, silent little jig for perhaps four seconds, her hands grasping, he trying to shove her away, and finally he wrenched loose, slamming her against the wall, and racing for the front door. He got the door unlocked, opened it, and was running for the stairway at the far end of the hall when Mrs. Ungerman began screaming.

Instead of heading down for the street, he went up toward the roof of the twelve-story building. The metal door was locked when he reached it. He backed off several paces, sprang the lock with a flat-footed kick, and sprinted out onto the roof. He hesitated a moment in the star-drenched night, to get his bearings. Then he ran for the parapet, looked down at the roof of the adjacent building, and leaped.

By the time Harry Ungerman put in his call to the police, the man who had tried to burglarize his apartment was already four blocks away, entering his own automobile.

But it had been a close call.