Nocturne

6

When you pull the boneyard shift, you quit work eight, nine in the morning, sometimes later if a turns up in your soup. Say you're lucky and you home at nine, nine-thirty, depending on traffic. You kiss the wife and kiddies, have a glass of milk and a piece of toast, and then tumble into bed ten, ten-thirty. After a few days, when you're used to the day-for-night schedule, you can actually sleep through a full eight hours and wake up refreshed. This would put you on your feet again six, six-thirty in the evening. That's when you have your lunch or dinner or whatever you might choose to call it at that hour. You're then free till around P.M. At that time of night, it shouldn't take more than half an hour, forty-five minutes to get to the precinct.

While you're asleep or spending some time with your family or friends, the precinct is awake bustling. A police station is in operation twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the That accounts for its worn and shoddy look. Criminals never rest; neither does a police station. So while Carella and Hawes slept, the day worked from 7:45 in the morning to 3:45 in the afternoon, when the night shift took over. And while Carella was having dinner with Teddy and-the twins, and Hawes was making love with Annie Rawles, the night shift learned some things and investigated some things but only some of these had to do with their two homicide cases.

During the hours of nine-fifteen that Sunday morning, when Carella and Hawes left the squad room and eleven forty-five that night, when they reported back to work again, things were happening out there. They would learn about some of these things later. Some of these things, they would never learn about.

At nine-thirty that Sunday morning, two of the Richards were in the empty lot across the street from the abandoned produce market, waiting for the other two Richards to come back with fresh pails of water.

They had done a good job of cleaning the trunk of the black Richard's car, but now they wanted to make sure there weren't any bloodstains anyplace else. The other two had gone for fresh water and fresh rags at a car wash some three blocks away, under the expressway. This part of Riverhead was virtually forlorn at nine thirty on a Sunday morning.

Hardly a car passed by on the overhead expressway. Empty window frames with broken shards of glass in them stared like eyeless sockets from abandoned buildings. The sun was shining brightly now, but there was a feel of snow in the air. Richard the Lion-Hearted knew when snow was coming. It was a sense he'd developed as a kid. He hoped snow wouldn't screw up what he had in mind. He was telling Richard the Second how he saw this thing.

"The girl dying was an accident," he said. "We were merely playing a game."

"Merely," Richard the Second said.

"She should've let us know if she was having difficulty breathing."

"That would've been the sensible thing to do."

"But she didn't. So how were we to know?"

"We couldn't have known."

"In a sense, it was her own fault."

"Did you come?" Richard the Second asked. "Yes, I did."

"I didn't."

"I'm sorry, Richard."

"Three hundred bucks, it would've been nice to come."

"I think he took the money, you know."

Who?"

"Richard. Took her money and the jumbos given her earlier. Nine hundred bucks and ten j "You didn't see her bag anywhere around, did you.

When we carried her down to the car?"

"No, I didn't, come to think of it."

"I'm sure he stole her bag with the money and jumbos in it. Which is how we're going to tie him to this thing."

"Tie him to what thing?"

"The girl's accident. Yvonne. Whatever her was."

"Claire, I think her name was. I wish I had come before she passed out."

"Well, that was her fault."

"Even so."

"We have to find that bag, Richard."

"Which bag is that?"

"It's not in the car, I looked. It has to be in his apartment."

"Which bag, Richard?"

"The one with the money and the jumbos in it. Once we find it, we can link him to the accident."

"How?"

"If he stole the bag, his fingerprints'll be on it."

"He might've wiped them off."

"They only do that in the movies. Besides, he wouldn't have had time.

We were all of us together, don't you remember? Wrapping her in the sheet, getting her downstairs into the trunk? He wouldn't have had time."

"She was heavy."

"She was."

"She looked so small. But she was heavy."

"Deceptive, yes."

"I still don't understand about the bag."

"What don't you understand?"

"How will it link him to the accident?"

"Well, his prints are on it."

"Yes, but…"

"The prints will link him to it."

"But if we go to the police with her bag…"

"No, no, no, we can't do that."

"Then what?"

"We leave it alongside the body."

"You think it's still there? She's probably in the morgue by now, don't you think?"

"I'm not talking about her body, Richard."

Paul Blaney was trying to determine which had come first, the chicken or the egg. Had the white female corpse on his autopsy table suffocated to death, or had her death been caused by severe hemorrhaging from the genital area? He had already determined that there was a sizable amount of cocaine derivative in the bloodstream. The girl had not died of an overdose, that was certain, but the detectives nonetheless would want to know about the presence of the drug, which could mean that the murder was drug-related so what else was new? He wasn't confident that the detectives would care a whit whether she was so badly injured below that she had bled to death or whether the bag over her head had caused her to suffocate. But it was Blaney's job to determine cause of death and establish a postmortem interval.

He was not paid to speculate. He was paid to examine the remains and to gather the facts that led to a scientific conclusion. Suffocation in his lexicon was described as "traumatic asphyxia resulting when obstructed air passages prevent the entrance of air to the lungs." But if the girl had suffocated, then where were all the telltale signs? Where was the cyanosis of the face, the blue coloration he always found somewhat frightening, even after all these years performing autopsies? Where were the small circular ecchymoses on the scalp, those tiny bruises indicative of strangulation, smothering, or choking? Where were the minute blood spots in the whites of the eyes? Lacking any of these certain indications, Blaney cut open the girl's chest.

What black Richard was thinking as he lugged the water back from the car wash was he would go to the police and tell them these four rich kids from a prep school in Massachusetts someplace, Connecticut, wherever, a school named Pierce Academy stitched right there on the front of their parkas these three rich white football players had come to him to see did he have any dope to sell, which of course he did, you all know I deal a little dope every now and then, who's kidding who here? I'm not here to lie to you, gents, I'm here to help you.

Cops lookin at him like Sure, the nigger's here to help us. Started as a mere clocker in the hood, and now he's dealing five, six bills a day, he's here to help us. Get lost, nigger.

Hey, no. I seen these boys do a murder.

Ah?

Ears perkin up now.

"What're you smiling at?" Richard the Third asked. Hulking along in his blue parka with the big white P on the back, little football right under the P, carrying two pails of water, same as black Richard himself. Both of them with clean rags from the car wash stuffed in their pockets. Shagging along under the expressway. If it was nighttime stead of mornin right now, they could both get killed, this neighborhood.

"Whut I'm thinking," Richard said, "is soon as we finish here, you go your way, I go mine."

And never the twain shall meet, he thought.

"It was a shame what happened to the girl," the other Richard said.

"Mm."

"But it wasn't our fault."

"Sure as shit wasn't my fault, Richard thought. They were the ones holdin her down, doin her with the Which is why I'll feel safe goin to the police. By my car being all spic-and-span, my apartment clean as a whistle, my bedsheets burned to ashes along with all rags we used. Get that little bonfire started soon as finish with the car. Watch it all go up in smoke. kiss the boys goodbye and go straight to the cops.

"Still," the other Richard said, "I feel sort of sorry for her."

Oh, man, you don't know how sorry you gonna feel Richard thought. Cause what I'm gonna do is sell you to the police. I'm going to trade your ass for money, boy, whatever the traffic will bear. Cause this is to be a big bust, three rich white kids from a fancy school suffocating a white hooker? Oh, this is a bust, cops up here in the asshole of the universe kill for a bust like this one, never mind just layin out three, four large from a slush fund they keep handy hot information like this. Might be worth even five grand, information like this, three rich white kids?

Can see the motherfuckin cops salivatin. Just got to keep clear of it, is all. Keep myself out of it.

Make it plain I had nothin to do with it. I only seen them do it.

Which, anyway, is the truth.

"I wish you'd stop smiling that way," Richard said. "You look like a hyena."

Oh yes, Richard thought.

There was something that kept troubling Jamal about the picture the cops had shown him. Well, sure, Yolande being dead and all, that was very troubling.

Laying on her back there in the alley, skirt hiked up over all that blood on the inside of her legs, plastic bag over her head, that was troubling. To see her that way. Beautiful young girl, dead that way.

Man, you never knew.

But there was something else troubling him about that picture and he didn't realize what it was until he was back in the apartment again, telling Carlyle all about his encounter with The Law.

"Thing they do," he said, "they tries to wait me out, like I don't know they got some reason to have me up the precinc, like I'm some dumb nigger frum Alabama visitin Granma in the big city. They finey gets aroun to Yolande…"

"Are you telling me she's dead?" Carlyle asked. Sitting at the kitchen table eating one of the croissants he'd brought back from the All Night Bakery on the Stem. Sipping coffee the color of her skin.

Cafe au lait was what you could call Carlyle. Yancy, who was Sarah Rowland when he first met her fresh and sassy at-nineteen. Twenty years old now, a fire-cracker pussy and a dedicated crack addict, thank you, Jamal Stone.

"Yes, she is dead," Jamal said, affecting a pious tone and a mounful look. Carlyle kept eating her buttered croissant. She appeared thoughtful for a moment, bad failing for a hooker. You never wanted them to start thinking about the perils of the occupation. But then she gave a slight shrug and took another bite of the croissant. Jamal went back to his tale of Derring-Do the Face of Imminent Arrest and Incarceration.

"They had these two big dudes from headquarters there, I knew this was something big even before they brung up Yolande's name. Then they lays her on me, and asts when I seed her last and whut she wearin an all that shit, and they throws dis pitcher of her dead in a alley on St. Sab's, bleedin her snatch."

"Urgh," Carlyle said, and bit into the croissant again.

"Yeah," Jamal said, "with a plastic bag over her fuckin head."

Carlyle got up and went to the stove. She wearing just this little silk wrapper he'd got her Victoria's Secret, floral design on it, all laven looking, and high-heeled bedroom slippers, looked as delicious as any of the croissants on the table. Man, he loved this girl. Yolande had been good money-maker, but this one he loved. Even if never again made a dime for him, he'd keep her take care of her. Well, maybe. He watched her as she poured more coffee into her cup. Watched her tight little ass, actually. Wouldn't care if she never brought home a nickel, this one.

Which was when he realized what was wrong with the picture the cops had shown him. "The bag," he said.

Carlyle turned from the stove, puzzled. "Yolande's bag. That red bag she has."

"The patent leather," Carlyle said, nodding. "She was carryin it last night."

Carlyle sipped at her coffee. "But it wasn't in the pitcher."

"What picture?"

"The one they showed me. Ain't them crime scene pitchers spose to show jus how everything was?"

"I don't know."

"They can't touch nothin before they take they pitchers, can they?"

"I don't know."

"So where was the bag?"

"Whoever done her must've taken it," Carlyle said. "Yeah, with my fuckin money in it," Jamal said.

He started making his calls at ten minutes past ten.

"Hello," the recorded voice said, "welcome to the Mayor's Action Center, the front door to city government If you are calling from a touch-tone phone and you want to continue in English, press One."

He had dialed 300-9600, and now he pressed One. "We aim to guide you if you don't know where to go, to listen thoughtfully to your opinions, and to help you if you have a problem. We can't promise to always solve what's wrong, but we can promise to do our best. By pressing selected buttons on your phone, this twenty-four-hour-a-day service can answer many of your questions without your speaking to an operator. It also allows you to leave your opinion of city policies. To speak directly to one of our representatives between the hours of nine and five, press Zero at any time. However, if you choose this option, please understand that you may need to hold for a while."

He chose the option.

He pressed Zero.

"You will experience a slight delay on the transl Please do not hang up."

He did not hang up.

"Hello, you have reached the Mayor's Action Center. All service representatives are serving clients. Your call will be handled by the available representative. Please make sure that you have all the materials relevant to your request available. Please provide as much detail as possible that we can serve you promptly."

He waited for exactly thirty seconds.

"All service representatives are still busy. continue to hold for the next available He waited another thirty seconds.

The same announcement repeated itself.

He waited again.

Five minutes of utter silence. Then:

"Mayor's Action Center. How may I help you?"

"Hello, my name is Randolph Hurd? To whom do I speak about noise pollution?"

"What kind of noise pollution?"

"The honking of horns in the vicinity of Hamilton Bridge. Which I believe is against the law anywhere in the city."

"The honking of what?"

"Horns. Car horns, taxicab horns, truck horns…"

"You want Environmental Protection. Let me give you the number there."

She gave him the number.

3374357.

He dialed it.

"This is the Department of Environmental Protection. If you are calling about a water or sewer problem, air or noise pollution…"

Good, he thought.

"… asbestos or hazardous materials, please hold. Our customer service agents handle calls in the order they come in, twenty-four hours a day. We will get to your call as quickly as possible. Thank you for waiting."

He waited for a minute or so.

"All of our agents are still busy," the recorded voice said. "would. you please continue to hold?"

The announcement repeated itself a moment later. And then there was silence for two or three minutes. "Environmental Protection," a man's voice said.

"Hello," Hurd said, "I'd like some information about noise pollution?"

"What type of noise pollution?"

"The honking of automobile horns? Taxis, trucks, cars? In the vicinity of the Hamilton Bridge?"

A silence. Then:

"What type of noise is that again?"

"Horns. Taxicab horns, track…"

"You want the Taxi and Limousine Commission," the man said. "That's 3078294."

He dialed the number.

"This is the Taxi and Limousine Commission," a recorded voice said. "If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, press One for further information."

He pressed One.

"If you are calling to report a complaint, press If you are calling regarding property left in a press Two. All other inquiries, press Three." He had a complaint. He pressed One.

"All complaints must be made in writin recorded voice advised him, and then went on to give him an address to which he could write.

"To return to the main menu," the recorded said, "press Eight."

He pressed Eight.

He listened to the options again. "All other inquiries" suddenly sounded very good. He pressed Three. A recorded voice said, "if you are calling licensing or owner information, press One. If you have a question about a hearing, summons, or appeal, press Two. If you have an inquiry regarding medallion renewal…"

He thought it over for a moment, figured that he most certainly wanted was a hearing of any and pressed Two. There were yet more options. Did he want to reschedule a hearing? Did want to check his subpoena status? Did he…?

"If you are calling regarding an appeal," the recorded voice said,

"press Four."

He pressed Four.

"Please remain on the line. There will be a moment of silence."

He felt as if he were standing at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

He waited.

The brief moment of silence passed.

"Appeals," a voice said:

"Are you a recording?" he asked.

"No, sir, I am a person."

"God bless you," he said, and eagerly told her that he wasn't calling regarding an actual appeal as such, but that he just wanted to talk to a human being who might be able to give him some information about motor vehicles blowing horns in the vicinity of the… "You want Public Affairs," she said. "That's 3074738."

"Is that still the Taxi and Limousine Commission?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Thank you," he said, and dialed the number. "Public Affairs," a man's actual voice said. He was on a roll.

"Sir," he said, "is it against the law for taxicabs to blow their horns?"

"Except in an emergency, yes, sir," the man said. "It's part of the Vehicle and Traffic Law."

"Are taxi drivers told it's against the law?"

"They're supposed to know it, yes, sir."

"But who informs them? Is the information in a booklet or something?"

"They're supposed to familiarize themselves with the law, yes, sir."

"How?"

"They're supposed to know it, sir."

"Well, they don't seem to be too familiar with it."

"Do you have a complaint about a taxi driver blowing his horn, sir?"

"I have a complaint about ten thousand of them blowing their horns!"

"11,787, sir," the man corrected. "But if you have a specific taxi in mind, you can call 307-TAXI with complaint."

"I don't have a specific taxi in mind."

"Then you should call DEP-HELP. They'll be to take a nonspecific complaint."

He hung up, and immediately dialed DEPH realizing an instant too late that this was in 3374357… This is the Department of Environme Protection. If you, are calling about a water or problem, air or noise pollution, asbestos or materials, please…"

He waited through two more announcements which told him that everyone was still busy, and finally he got a customer service agent. He explained that he wanted to make a nonspecific complaint about the honking horns in the vicinity of the Hamilton Bridge between the hours of…"

"The honking of what?"

"Horns. Car horns, taxi horns, truck horns."

"And you say you wish to make what kind of complaint?"

"Nonspecific. I've just been informed it's against the law, and that you would take my complaint."

"I don't know if it's against the law or not. If you want a copy of the Noise Pollution Rules, you can send four dollars and seventy-five cents to this address, have you got a pencil?"

"I don't want a copy of the rules. The Taxi and Limousine Commission just told me the honking of horns is against the Vehicle and Traffic Law."

"Then you want Traffic," the agent said. "Let me give you a number."

She gave him a number and he dialed it. The line was busy for four minutes. Then a voice said, "Customer Service."

"Hello," he said, "I'm calling to complain about the honking of horns…"

"You want Traffic," the woman said. "Isn't this traffic?"

"No, this is Transit."

"Well, have you got a number for Traffic?" She gave him a number for traffic. He dialed it.

"Hello," he said, "I'm calling to complain about the honking of horns in the vi. "

"We only take complaints for traffic lights and streetlights."

"Well, to whom do I talk about…?". "Let me give you Traffic."

"I thought this was traffic."

"No, I'll switch you." He waited.

"Department of Transportation."

"I'm calling to complain about the honking of homs in the vicinity of…"

"What you want is the DEP."

"I want the what?"

"Department of Environmental Protection. Hold on, I'll give you the number."

"I have the number, thanks."

He called Environmental Protection again. All agents were busy again.

After a wait of some six minutes, he got someone on the phone and told her about his problem all over again. She listened patiently.

Then she said, "We don't take auto horns."

"Are you telling me that the Department Environmental Protection can't do anything noise pollution?"

"I'm not saying there's no one here can do about it," she said. "All I'm saying is we don't auto horns."

"Well, isn't the honking of auto horns noise pollution?"

"Not in this department. Day construction, night construction, all that kind of stuff is what we call noise pollution."

"But not horn honking?"

"Not horn honking."

"Even though it's against the law?"

"I don't know if it's against the law or not. You can check that with your local precinct."

"Thank you," he said.

He looked up the number for the precinct closest to the Hamilton Bridge. The 87th Precinct. 41 Grover Avenue. 387-8024. He dialed it.:

A recorded voice said, "If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.

If this is not an emergency, hang on and someone will be with you shortly."

He hung on.

"Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison." He went straight for the jugular.

"The honking of automobile horns is against the law," he said. "Isn't that true?"

"Except in an emergency situation, yes, sir, that very definitely is true."

Good, he thought.

"But it's a law that's extremely difficult to enforce," Sergeant Murchison said. "Because, sir, we can't pinpoint who's doing the actual honking, do you see, sir? Where the honk is coming from, do you see? If we could find out who was actually leaning on his horn, why, we'd give him a summons, do you see?"

He did not mention that standing on the corner of Silvermine and Sixteenth, listening to the infernal, incessant cacophony of horns, he could without fail and with tremendous ease pinpoint exactly which cabdriver, truck driver or motorist was doing the honking, sometimes for minutes on end.

"What if he gets a summons?" he asked.

"He goes to court. And gets a fine if he's found guilty."

"How much is the fine?"

"Well, I would have to look that up, sir."

"Could you do that, please?"

"You mean right now?"

"Yes."

"No, I can't do that right now, sir. We're very busy here right now."

"Thank you," he said, and hung up.

He sat with his hand on the telephone receiver for a very long time, his head bent. Outside, the noise was merciless. He rose at last, and went to the window, and threw it wide open to the wintry blast and the assault of the horns.

"Shut up," he whispered to the traffic below.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!" he shouted.

Ten minutes later, he shot and killed a guy who was blowing his horn on the approach ramp to Hamilton Bridge.