Long Time No See

Fifteen

It was a little past two o’clock when Sam Grossman called Detective George Underhill at the Four-One.

“I’ve got a report on that blood sample,” he said.

“What blood sample?” Underhill asked.

“From the sidewalk.”

“Oh, yeah,” Underhill said. He had completely forgotten his request until just this moment. He had, in fact, forgotten it almost the instant after he’d called the lab last night. Now here was Grossman with a report. He did not know what he would do with the report, since there’d been no word from any of the city’s hospitals about anyone seeking treatment for a dog bite. He picked up a pencil and said, “Okay, let me have it.”

“First of all, yes, it’s blood,” Grossman said, “and secondly, yes, it’s human blood.”

“What group?” Underhill asked.

“You might be lucky. It’s group B.”

“How does that make me lucky?”

“You’d be luckier if it was group AB because only three to six percent of the population falls into that group. As it is, your sample falls into the ten-to-fifteen-percent grouping.”

“That makes me lucky, huh?”

“It could’ve been O or A, which are the most common groups.”

“Okay, thanks a lot,” Underhill said.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not unless you know somebody got bit by a dog.”

“Was this a dog-bite victim?”

“Yeah.”

“The dog wasn’t rabid, was he?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Guy told the investigating patrolman.”

“Because if he’s rabid...”

“No, no, he’s a seeing-eye dog, how could he be rabid?”

“Seeing-eye dogs can be rabid,” Grossman said. “Same as any other dog.”

“Yeah, but this one had his shots.”

“Who’d he bite?”

“We don’t know. Somebody who tried to assault his owner.”

“What do you mean?” Grossman said.

“Somebody tried to assault the owner, and the dog bit him.”

“A blind man?”

“Yeah, the dog’s owner. He’s a seeing-eye dog, isn’t he? So naturally the owner’s—”

“Is this something you’re working with Carella?” Grossman asked.

“No,” Underhill said. “Who’s Carella?”

“Of the Eight-Seven.”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“Because he’s working some homicides involving blind victims.”

“This isn’t a homicide,” Underhill said. “This isn’t even an assault, you want to know. Guy tried to attack a blind man, and the dog bit him.”

“Where?”

“Where’d he bite him? We don’t know.”

“I mean, where did the attack take place?”

“Cherry and Laird.”

“All the way down there, huh?”

“Yeah. Well, I got work here, thanks a lot, huh?” Underhill said and hung up.

Grossman put the receiver back on the cradle, thought for a moment about the odds against Underhill’s case being related to Carella’s, and decided to call the Eight-Seven, anyway.

Genero answered the squadroom phone.

“87th Squad, Detective Genero,” he said. He always made sure he gave his title. Every other detective on the squad merely gave a last name; Genero gave any caller the full treatment.

“This is Sam Grossman at the lab,” Grossman said. “I’d like to talk to Carella.”

“Not here,” Genero said.

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know,” Genero said.

“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Nope,” Genero said.

“Who’s working the blind-man case with him, would you know?”

“Meyer, I think.”

“Is he there?”

Genero looked around the squadroom. “No, I don’t see him.”

“Well, ask either one of them to call me back as soon as possible, would you?”

“Will do,” Genero said.

“In fact, let me talk to the lieutenant.”

“I’ll have the desk sergeant transfer you,” Genero said. He jiggled the receiver bar, and when Murchison came on the line, he said, “Dave, put this through to the lieutenant’s office, will you?”

Grossman waited. For a moment he thought he’d been cut off.

“87th Squad, Byrnes.”

“Pete, this is Sam Grossman at the lab.”

“Yes, Sam, how are you?”

“Fine. I’ve just been talking to a detective named George Underhill at the Four-One, he’s working a case with a blind victim.”

“A homicide?”

“Attempted assault. I have no idea whether this is related to Steve’s case or not, but it might be worth contacting Underhill.”

“Right, I’ll pass it along to Steve.”

“The perpetrator was bitten by the victim’s dog,” Grossman said. “You might want to put a hospital-stop on it right away.”

“Didn’t Underhill do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll put somebody on it,” Byrnes said. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it,” Grossman said, and hung up.

Byrnes put up the phone and went out into the squad-room. Genero was staring at a pair of pale blue bikini panties on his desk. Byrnes said, “What are you doing with those panties, Genero?”

“They’re evidence,” Genero said.

“Of what?”

“Fornication,” Genero said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Byrnes said. “Call the Department of Hospitals, put a stop out for any dog-bite victims. Ask them to refer back to Carella of the Eight-Seven.”

“Is that what Captain Grossman wanted?”

“Yes, that’s what he wanted.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to tell Carella he called?”

“Leave a note on Carella’s desk.”

“Meyer’s, too?”

“Meyer’s, too.”

“Shall I call the Department of Hospitals first?”

“If you think you can handle three things in a row without forgetting any of them.”

“Oh, sure,” Genero said.

The supreme court magistrate read Carella’s affidavit, and then said, “What is it you want in that safety deposit box, Detective Carella? It doesn’t say what you want.”

“That’s because I don’t know what’s in it, your Honor,” Carella said.

“Then how can you expect me to sign an order commanding you to open it?”

“Your Honor,” Carella said, “as you’ll note in the affidavit, this is a homicide I’m investigating, and I have reason to believe that whatever the murderer was searching for in the apartment of two of the victims—”

“Yes, yes, that’s all here.”

“Might be in the box, your Honor, and might constitute evidence of the crime of murder.”

“But you don’t know what you’re looking for specifically,” the magistrate said.

“No, your Honor, I do not.”

“Do you have any personal knowledge of the existence of such evidence?”

“Only knowledge based on the fact that the murderer thoroughly searched the apartment for something, your Honor, as stated in the affidavit.”

“That is not personal knowledge of evidence in the box,” the magistrate said.

“Your Honor, I don’t think this would constitute an illegal search, any more than going through a victim’s dresser drawers would constitute an illegal search at the scene of the murder.”

“This is not the scene of a murder.”

“I realize that, your Honor. But I’ve had a court order, for example, to open a safety deposit box when all I was investigating was a numbers operation, a policy operation, your Honor, and this is a homicide.”

“In this other case, did you have personal knowledge of what you would find in the box when it was opened?”

“I had information from an informer.”

“That constitutes personal knowledge,” the magistrate said.

“Your Honor, I really would like to open that box. Three people have been killed already, all of them blind, and I think there may be something in there that can help me. There’s probable cause to believe there’s something in there, your Honor.”

“If I issued this warrant, it might do you more harm than good,” the magistrate said. “Your application might later be controverted on a motion to suppress the evidence seized under it.”

“I’d like to take that chance, your Honor,” Carella said. “Your Honor, there’s no one who can be hurt here but the killer. We’re not violating the victim’s rights by opening that box, your Honor.”

“I’ll grant the warrant,” the magistrate said.

On the way uptown Carella wondered why the judge had given him such a hard time. He guessed the hard time was worth it. He guessed that protecting the rights of one person was the same as protecting the rights of all persons. It was almost two-thirty when he got back to the squadroom. He intended stopping by only to tell Byrnes where he was going and what he was about to do. It was good to give progress reports when the lieutenant was complaining about lack of progress. Genero was sitting at his desk, looking at a pair of pale blue bikini panties.

“I put a note on your typewriter,” Genero said.

“Thanks,” Carella said, and pulled the note from the roller. It told him that Grossman had called. Grossman was spelled “Grosman.” Carella was about to call him back when Byrnes came out of his office and told him about Underhill, and the attempted assault, and the dog bite. Carella said, “Okay, good,” and filled him in on the safety deposit box and the court order, and then turned his name-plaque to the wall on the Duty Chart, and went downstairs again to where the dog was dripping spit all over the back seat. He tried to remember the dog’s name, but couldn’t. Nobody’s perfect.

The manager of the First Federal on Yates Avenue was a black man named Samuel Hobbs. He welcomed Carella into his office, shook hands with him, and then studied the court order with a solemnity befitting a command for a royal beheading. Carella extended the Mosler key to him. Hobbs pressed a button on the base of his phone. A black girl in her early twenties came into the office, and Hobbs asked her to locate the box number of James Randolph Harris and then escort Detective Carella to the vault and open the box for him. Carella followed her. She had long slender legs and a twitchy behind. She found the number of the box in a card file, and then led him into the vault. She smiled at him a lot; he was beginning to think he was devastating.

She opened the box drawer and pulled out the box. She asked him if he wanted a room. He said he wanted a room, and she carried the box to a cubicle with a louvered door, which he locked behind him. There was a pair of scissors on the wall-hung desk top, for the convenience of those customers clipping coupons. He lifted the lid of the box. There was only one thing in the box, a carbon copy of a typewritten letter. He looked at the letter. It was addressed to Major John Francis Tataglia at Fort Lee, Virginia. The letter was dated November sixth. It read:

This time Carella’s warrant was a bit more specific. It read:

Wherefore, I respectfully request that the court issue a warrant in the form annexed hereto, authorizing a search of the person of Major John Francis Tataglia for a dog-bite wound.

No previous application in this matter has been made in this or any other court or to any other judge, justice, or magistrate.

The magistrate to whom Carella presented his application was the same one he’d asked for permission to open the Harris safety deposit box. He read the application carefully, and then signed the search warrant attached to it.

The sentry at the main gate would not let Carella through.

Carella showed him the warrant, and the sentry said he would have to check it with provost marshal. He dialed a number and told somebody there was a detective here with a search warrant, and then he handed the phone to Carella and said, “The colonel wants to talk to you.”

Carella took the phone. “Hello,” he said.

“Yes, this is Colonel Humphries, what’s the problem?”

“No problem, sir,” Carella said. “I’ve got a court order here, and your man won’t let me through the gate.”

“What kind of court order?”

“To search the person of Major John Francis Tataglia.”

“What for?”

“A dog bite, sir.”

“Why?”

“He’s a murder suspect,” Carella said.

“Put the sentry on,” the colonel said. Carella handed the phone through the car window to the sentry. The sentry took it, said, “Yes, sir?” and then listened. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir,” he said again, and put the receiver back on its wall hook. “Third building on your right,” he said to Carella. “It’s marked Military Police.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and drove through the gate. He parked the car in the gravel oval in front of a red-brick building, and then went inside to where a corporal was sitting behind a desk. He asked for Colonel Humphries, and the corporal asked him who should he say was here, and Carella told him who he was, and the corporal buzzed the colonel and announced Carella, and then told him it was the door just ahead, please go right in.

Colonel Humphries was a man in his early fifties, tall and suntanned, with a firm handclasp and a voice that sounded whiskey-seared. He explained to Carella that he had just spoken to the post commander, who had authorized the body search provided an Army legal officer and an Army physician were present when the order was executed. Carella understood this completely. The Army was protecting the rights of one of its own.

The five of them assembled in the post dispensary — a lieutenant colonel, who was the appointed legal officer; a major, who was the Army physician; Colonel Humphries, who was the senior Military Police officer on post; Carella, who was beginning to feel a bit intimidated by all this brass; and Major John Francis Tataglia, who read the court order and then shrugged and said, “I don’t understand.”

“It gives him the authority to search for a dog bite,” the legal officer said. “General Kihlborg’s already approved the search.”

“Would you mind stripping down?” Carella said.

“This is ridiculous,” Tataglia said, but he began disrobing. There were no wounds on either of his arms, but there was a bandage on his left leg, just above the ankle.

“What’s that?” Carella asked.

Standing in his khaki undershorts and tank-top undershirt, Tataglia said, “I cut myself.”

“Would you take off the bandage, please?” Carella said.

“I’m afraid it’ll start bleeding again,” Tataglia said.

“We’ve got a doctor here,” Carella said. “He’ll remove the bandage, if you prefer.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Tataglia said, and slowly unwound the bandage.

“That’s not a cut,” Carella said.

“It’s a cut,” Tataglia said.

“Then what are those perforations?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Those are teeth marks.”

“Are you a doctor?” Tataglia asked.

“No, but anyone can see those are teeth marks.” He turned to the medical officer. “Major,” he said, “are those teeth marks?”

“They could be teeth marks,” the major said. “I would have to examine them more closely.”

“Would you do that, please?” Carella asked.

The major went to a stainless-steel cabinet, opened the top drawer of it, and took out a magnifying glass. “Would you get up on the table here?” he asked. Tataglia climbed onto the table. The doctor adjusted an overhead light so that it illuminated the wound on Tataglia’s leg. He peered through the magnifying glass. “Well,” he said, “the wound could have been caused by the action of canine teeth and cutting molars. I can’t say for sure.”

Carella turned to the legal officer. “Colonel,” he said, “I’d like to take this man into custody for further examination by the medical examiner and for questioning regarding three homicides and an attempted assault.”

“Well, we’re not sure that’s a dog bite,” the legal officer said.

“It’s some kind of an animal bite, that’s for sure,” Carella said.

“That doesn’t make it a dog bite. Your court order specifically authorizes search for a dog bite. Now, if this isn’t a dog bite...”

“Your medical officer said the wound might have been caused—”

“No, I said I couldn’t be sure,” the medical officer said.

“All right, what the hell’s going on here?” Carella asked.

“You want me to release this man from military jurisdiction,” the legal officer said, “and I’m just not—”

“Only pending the outcome of our investigation.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Do I have to get a district attorney out here?” Carella said. “Okay, I’ll call the city and get one out here. Where’s the phone?”

“Take it easy,” Colonel Humphries said.

“Take it easy, shit!” Carella said. “I’ve got a man here who maybe killed three people, and you’re telling me to take it easy? I’m going to arrest this man if I’ve got to get the President on the phone, now how about that? He’s Commander in Chief of the—”

“Just take it easy,” Humphries said again.

“What’s it going to be?” Carella said.

“Let me talk to the general,” Humphries said.

“Go ahead, talk to him.”

“I’ll be back,” Humphries said, and went into the next room.

Carella could hear the sound of a telephone being dialed. He began pacing. The Army officers looked through the window to the quadrangle beyond, avoiding his eyes. Tataglia had rebandaged his leg and was putting on his clothes again when Humphries came back into the room.

“The general says it okay,” he said.

It wasn’t that easy.

The legal officer went along with Tataglia to protect his rights, as was usual in this country — and which wasn’t so bad when you got right down to it. Because supposing Tataglia wasn’t the man who’d killed Jimmy and Isabel Harris, not to mention Hester Mathieson, huh? Suppose he wasn’t the man who’d attacked old Eugene Maslen and been bitten by his dog Ralph? Suppose he’d been bitten instead by his wife or his pussycat, huh? That was why it was necessary to have Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Loomis there to make certain the cops of the 87th did not work Tataglia over with rubber hoses — which cops nowadays didn’t do, but which Loomis didn’t know.

When Carella asked that a sample of Tataglia’s blood be taken to compare with the blood that had been found on the sidewalk outside the Mercantile Bank on Cherry and Laird, Lieutenant Colonel Loomis said he felt this was a violation of Tataglia’s rights. An assistant district attorney named Andrew Stewart was up at the squadroom by then because this looked like real meat and they didn’t want a multiple murderer to get away with murder even if his counsel was a hard-nosed career Army officer who also objected to a medical examiner taking a look at the wound to determine whether or not it was a dog bite. Stewart was a hard-nosed career man who hoped one day to become governor of the state. He had served with the United States Army during one of his nation’s many wars, and he did not like officers and he especially did not like lieutenant colonels.

“Colonel,” he said, because that’s what lieutenant colonels were called in the United States Army, “I think I ought to let you in on a few secrets here before you find yourself behind enemy lines without support.” He smiled like a chipmunk when he said this because he thought it was a pretty good metaphor, which in fact it was. “I am going to tell you all about Miranda-Escobedo and the rights of a prisoner. Or rather, since everybody nowadays talks about the rights of prisoners, I am going to tell you about the rights of law-enforcement officers. So pay attention, Colonel—”

“I don’t like your condescending air,” Loomis said.

“Be that as it may,” Stewart said, and smiled his chipmunk smile again. “Let me inform you that a police officer may properly ask a prisoner to submit to a blood or breath-alyzer test, to take his fingerprints or to photograph him, to examine his body, to put him in a line-up, to ask him to put on a hat or a coat, or to pick up coins or put his finger to his nose or any thing of the sort without warning him first of his privilege against self-incrimination or the right to counsel.”

“That is your interpretation,” Loomis said.

“No, that is the interpretation of the Supreme Court of this land, Colonel. The difference between any of these actions and a statement in response to interrogation is simply the difference between nort-testimonial and testimonial responses on the part of the prisoner. The first need not be preceded by the warnings; the second must always be. So, Colonel, whether you like it or not, we’re going to take a sample of Major Tataglia’s blood, and we’re also going to have an assistant M.E. look at that wound in an attempt to determine whether or not it was inflicted by a dog. Now that’s it, Colonel, and we’re well within our rights, and you can object till hell freezes over, but we’re still going to do it. Is that clear?”

“I am objecting,” Loomis said.

“Fine. And I’m calling the Medical Examiner’s Office to arrange for a man to get here right away.”

The assistant M.E. arrived some forty minutes later. It was now close to nine p.m. He looked at the wound and said it appeared to be a dog bite. He then asked if the dog was rabid.

“Yes,” Carella said.

The lie came to his lips suddenly and brilliantly. There was nothing in the rules that said you could not lie to an assistant medical examiner, so he instantly embroidered the lie. “The Canine Unit cut off the dog’s head and tested the brain,” he said. “The dog had rabies.”

“Then this man had better be treated right away,” the M.E. said, and then did an a cappella chorus on this dread disease, explaining that the incubation period might be anywhere from two to twenty-two weeks, after which the major could expect severe pains in the area of the healed wound, followed by headaches, loss of appetite, vomiting, restlessness, apprehension, difficulty swallowing, and eventual convulsion, delirium, coma — and death. He said the word “death” with a finality altogether fitting.

Tataglia remained unperturbed. He had no reason to believe that any of this was prearranged, which indeed it wasn’t. Carella wasn’t the one who’d called the Medical Examiner’s Office, nor had he said a single word to the M.E. before the man asked if the dog was rabid. The question seemed a natural one, the answer seemed entirely truthful, and the M.E.’s concern seemed only professional, that of a physician giving medical advice to a man in possible danger. But Tataglia didn’t even blink.

Carella took Stewart aside, and the men held a brief whispered consultation.

“What do you think?” Carella asked.

“I think he’s a cocky little bastard and we can break him.”

“What about the colonel?”

“Loomis doesn’t know his ass from his elbow when it comes to criminal law.”

“Do you want to handle the Q and A?”

“No, you take it You know more about the case than I do.”

“Shall I show him the letter?”

“Advise him of his rights first.”

“He may decide to clam up.”

“No. When they’re this fuckin smart,” Stewart said, “they’re only dumb.”

Both men walked back to where the others were clustered about Genero’s desk. Genero had gone home long ago, but the blue bikini panties were still resting near his telephone.

“Major Tataglia,” Carella said, “in keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda versus Arizona, we are not permitted to ask you any questions until you are warned of your right to counsel and your privilege against self-incrimination.”

“What is this?” Loomis asked suspiciously.

“This is known as warning your client of his rights,” Stewart said, and smiled.

“First,” Carella said, “you have the right to remain silent if you so choose. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Tataglia said.

“Good. Second, you do not have to answer any questions if you don’t want to. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Tataglia said wearily, “I understand it.”

“Third, if you do decide to answer any questions, the answers may be used against you, do you understand that?”

“Yes, yes,” Tataglia said, and actually yawned.

Carella thought We are going to get you, you little prick.

“You also have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning—”

“My attorney is Colonel Loomis.”

“And to terminate the questioning at any time. Is all of that clear?”

“Yes, it is all perfectly clear,” Tataglia said.

“Good,” Carella said, and reached into his inside jacket pocket and took from it the letter he had found in the Harris safety deposit box. “Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“I should really ask whether you’ve ever seen the original of this. This is a carbon copy. Have you ever seen the original of this?”

Tataglia took the letter and studied it. “No,” he said at last.

“It’s addressed to you,” Carella said.

“At Fort Lee, Virginia. I was transferred from there in September. This letter is dated November sixth.”

“Ah,” Carella said.

“May I see the letter, please?” Loomis said.

“Certainly,” Carella said, and handed it to him. “You never received this letter, is that right, Major?” he said.

“That’s right,” Tataglia said. “The Army isn’t always very good at forwarding mail,” he said, and smiled.

“What do you make of its contents?” Carella asked.

“It’s contents?”

“Yes. You’re seeing it for the first time now...”

“I haven’t even read it,” Tataglia said.

“Oh, I thought you’d read it. Colonel Loomis, would you give him the letter, please?”

“I wouldn’t answer any further questions, if I were you,” Loomis said. “Mr. Carella, Mr. Stewart, I would like to suggest—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tataglia said, and took the letter from Loomis. “I have nothing to hide.”

Good, Carella thought. You're just what we think you are, and we’re going to nail you to the wall. He watched as Tataglia slowly and carefully read the letter. Finally, Tataglia looked up.

“Have you read it now?” Carella asked.

“Yes.”

“For the first time, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I have no idea what it means.”

“You don’t know what it means?” Carella said.

“That’s right.”

“It seems to me that Jimmy Harris is suggesting that you stuck a bayonet in Lieutenant Blake.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Lieutenant Blake was killed, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was.”

“But this isn’t how he was killed. He wasn’t killed the way Jimmy Harris suggests.”

“He was killed when a mortar shell exploded near him.”

“Ah,” Carella said.

“I told you that when you came to see me yesterday.”

“Yes, but Jimmy seems to have thought you stuck a bayonet in the lieutenant.”

“I have no idea what Jimmy thought or didn’t think. Jimmy is dead.”

“So he is. He seems to have thought the others also stuck bayonets in the lieutenant.”

“I repeat—”

“Because in his letter he says you and the others killed the lieutenant.”

“I don’t know what others you mean.”

“I would guess the men in Alpha Fire Team, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what the letter means. I can only think Jimmy was crazy when he wrote it.”

“Ah,” Carella said. “You think he just invented all this, is that it?”

“I don’t know what he invented or didn’t invent. I only know that this is an obvious attempt at blackmail.”

“Then you didn’t stab Lieutenant Blake?”

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Excuse me,” Loomis said, “but I really feel the major should not answer any further questions. Major Tataglia, as your legal advisor...”

“I have nothing to hide,” Tataglia said again.

“What happened that day?” Carella asked.

“What day?”

“The day Lieutenant Blake got killed.

“There was a mortar attack,” Tataglia said, and shrugged. “He was killed by an exploding mortar shell.”

“Was this before or after he ordered Alpha up the hill?”

“What hill?”

“Up the hill to attack the mortar emplacement.”

“I recall no such order.”

You'd been fighting with another gang all that month—

Heavy fighting, man.

And now you were resting.

Yeah, and Lloyd told us to go on up.

What did he mean by that?

I told you. Upstairs.

“The lieutenant didn’t order Alpha up the hill?” Carella asked.

“I don’t know what hill you mean.”

“Where was the lieutenant’s command post?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Wasn’t it on the low ground? Near some bamboo?”

“I don’t remember.”

“This was the day you were promoted in the field, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember where the command post was.”

“Danny Cortez says it was near some bamboo at the bottom of a hill.”

“I don’t even know who Danny Cortez is.”

“He was in Bravo. The lieutenant ordered Bravo up the hill, and then he came down to get Alpha. He ordered Alpha up the hill, too, didn’t he?”

“No.”

“But the men refused to go, didn’t they?”

Damn straight, man. The boys told Lloyd to shove it up his ass. Then they all grabbed him, you know, pulled him away from Roxanne where they were standin there in the middle of the floor. Record still goin, drums loud as anything. Guy banging the drums there.

“Isn’t that what happened?” Carella asked. His scalp was beginning to tingle. He understood it completely now. It had taken him a long time to see it but now it was crystal-clear. He didn’t need Lemarre or Leider to explain what had happened that day. He knew what had happened. “Did you and the lieutenant struggle?”

“No, the lieutenant and I didn’t struggle.”

“Didn’t you tell him the men didn’t have to go up that hill if they didn’t want to? Didn’t you tell him they were tired?”

“I told him nothing of the sort.”

“But he was there, isn’t that right?”

“Where? I don’t know what you mean.”

“At the command post. He wasn’t killed before he got to the command post, was he?”

“I don’t... I don’t remember when he was killed. We... the mortar attack started when he was coming down the hill.”

There’s this post in the middle of the room, you know? Like, you know, a steel post holdin up the ceiling beams. They push him up against the post. I got no idea what they fixin to do with him, he the president, they askin for trouble there.

“What was the lieutenant’s first name?” Carella asked.

“What?”

“Lieutenant Blake. What was his first name?”

“Roger.”

Roxanne’s cryin. They grab her. She fightin them now, she don’t want this to happen, but they do it anyway, they stick it in her, one after the other, all of them.

“Danny Cortez saw it,” Carella said. He was lying again. He didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t going to let this son of a bitch off the hook. If the courts reversed it later, the hell with it. He wasn’t going to let him get away now.

“I... don’t know who Danny Cortez is.”

“Bravo Fire Team. I told you before. Bravo. He saw it while he was going up the hill. He looked down, and he saw you and the lieutenant struggling—”

“No,” Tataglia said.

“Saw you unsheath your bayonet—”

“No.”

“And stab him.”

“No!” Tataglia screamed, and suddenly he put his face in his hands and began sobbing. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, “I didn’t want to... I didn’t do it for... I was trying to protect the men. They were tired, they... I was their sergeant, I was the one they trusted. He waited them to... The enemy was up there with mortars, how could we possibly... Oh, Jesus. I told him they didn’t have to go if they were tired. We... he swung at me and I grabbed him and... we... we held him against a tree and I... I pulled my bayonet out of... out of... I stabbed him with it. The mortars were going everywhere around us, we... we all stabbed him. All of us but Jimmy. We all stabbed him. And then we... dragged him in the jungle and... and cut him... cut him... cut him up in pieces so it would look like the... the enemy did it.

“When I... when I got Jimmy’s letter, I... I tried to remember, it was so long ago, it was... Who could remember? I could hardly remember. But I knew he could ruin me... I knew he... I had to protect myself, I have a wife and family, I love them, I had to protect them. I knew if the Army started an investigation it would all come out, somebody would crack. So I — he’d given me his return address, you know, on his letter, you know — so I... I found him and I... I killed him. And then I went to his apartment looking for the copy he said he had, the copy of the letter — I gave his wife a chance, I really did, I gave her a chance to give it to me, but she wouldn’t, so I... so I slit her throat with the same bayonet. The others — the lady with the accordion and the man I tried to kill last night — they were just so you’d think it was someone crazy.”

He looked up suddenly. Tears were streaming from his eyes, his face was distorted and pained and plaintive.

“Did the dog really have rabies?” he asked.

So that was it.

They took Tataglia down and booked him for three counts of Murder One, and they threw in the Attempted Assault only because they knew the smoke screen would most certainly become part of the case when it was tried, and they didn’t want any looe ends kicking around. As for the rest of it, that was the Army’s business and the Army’s job. Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Loomis promised them he would set the wheels of military justice in motion the moment he got back to Fort Kirby. A full investigation into the murder of Lieutenant Roger Blake would be forthcoming, he said, and he was confident that all perpetrators would be brought before a convened court-martial. Carella thought it was interesting that he had used the word “perpetrators.”

He left the squadroom at twenty minutes to eleven. The night was blustery and cold. He walked with his head ducked against a fierce wind, clutching against his chest a wrapped hamburger he’d asked Miscolo to send out for while Tataglia was being booked. The dog was asleep on the back seat of the car. Carella had left the window on the curb side open a crack, figuring no one would try boosting an automobile belonging to a cop, the information clipped to the turned-down visor: Police Department. He unlocked the front door now, pulled up the lock-knob on the rear door, and then opened it and leaned into the car. He still couldn’t remember the damn dog’s name. He’d have to ask Sophie Harris what the dog’s name was.

“Hey, boy,” he said. “Wake up.”

The dog blinked up at him.

“You want some hamburger?” Carella said, and opened the paper in which the hamburger was wrapped.

The dog blinked again.

“Miscolo sent out for it. It’s cold but it’s very nice. Take a sniff.

He extended his hand to the dog, the hamburger on his open palm. The dog sniffed at it. Then he took a tentative nibble.

“Good,” Carella said, and spread open the paper the hamburger was wrapped in, and put hamburger and paper on the seat beside the dog. By the time he came around to the driver’s side of the car, the hamburger was gone and the dog was licking at the paper. Carella sat behind the wheel a moment before starting the car, looking through the windshield at the green globes of the station house ahead, the numerals “87” painted on each in white. He wondered if there was anything he’d forgotten to do, decided there wasn’t, and twisted the ignition key. It was his contention that when you finished your song and dance, the best thing to do was go home.

He went home.