Shotgun

7

Thursday was Halloween, so naturally nothing happened on either case. That’s because on Halloween there are ghouls and goblins and witches and spooks stirring on the sweet October air, and they put a hex on anybody trying to do good. The detectives of the 87th were trying to do good by solving those several murders, but it was no use, not on Halloween. So both cases sat right where they were. Besides, there was plenty of other mischief to take care of on that Thursday, October 31.

Carella knew, of course, that Halloween was in reality the day before All Saints’ Day, a church festival celebrated on November 1 each year in honor of all the saints. He further knew that All Saints’ Day was sometimes called All-hallows (hallow meaning saint), and Halloween, before it got bastardized, was originally called Allhallows Even (even being another way of saying eve), and even even became contracted to e’en, hence Hallowe’en, and finally everybody dropped the apostrophe and it became Halloween, a long way from Allhallows Even perhaps, but that’s the way the witch’s brew bubbles, bubeluh.

To Carella, Allhallows Even sounded a great deal more pious than Halloween, but pious was the last thing Halloween had become in America. So perhaps the bastardized and contracted handle was really quite descriptive of an unofficial holiday that had evolved over the years into an excuse for malicious mischief across the length and breadth of the nation. The mischief had been present when Carella was a boy too, but it all seemed far more innocent in those days. In those days he would roam the October streets wearing a fleece-lined pseudo — World War I leather aviator’s helmet with goggles, carrying either a piece of colored chalk (or white chalk, for that matter, though colored chalk was far more desirable); or else a stick stripped from an orange crate, the end of which had been chalked; or else a sock full of flour. The idea was to chase a person, preferably a girl, and either chalk a line down her back, or slap her with the stick, thereby chalking her back, or hit her with the sock full of flour, which also left a mark on her back. You then shouted “Halloween!” and ran like hell, usually giggling. The girl giggled too. Everybody giggled. It was good clean fun, or so it seemed in Carella’s memory. At night, the kids would build an enormous bonfire in the middle of the city street, tossing into it wood scavenged from empty lots, old furniture and crates begged from apartment-building superintendents during the long, exciting day. The flames would leap skyward, shooting sparks and cinders, the boys would run into the street like hobgoblins themselves, to throw more fuel onto the fire, and then the collection of wood exhausted itself, and the flames dwindled, and the girls all went upstairs while the boys stood around the smoldering fire and peed on it.

That was Halloween, Carella thought.

Today...

Well, today, for example, two kids had broken the plate-glass window of a bakery shop on Ainsley Avenue because the owner had refused to give them money for UNICEF. They had gone into the shop carrying their orange-and-black milk containers with the UNICEF wrappers and asked the man to contribute to the relief fund and the man had said, Get the hell out of my shop. So they had got out of his shop and hurled two bricks through his window besides, executing the trick because they’d been refused the treat. Now, surely there was something insane about smashing a man’s window because he refused to contribute to the welfare of starving children all over the world, something almost as insane as fighting wars to preserve peace. It seemed to Carella that a man accused of assault could not reasonably offer as his defense the statement, “I punched him in the nose because I wanted to prevent a fight.” This was no more reasonable than smashing a plate-glass window costing $500 merely because some bastard had refused to contribute a nickel to a worthwhile cause. With this sort of reasoning afoot, even on Halloween when all reason was distorted, the lunatics were well on their way to taking over the asylum.

Other “mischievous” happenings that day seemed to confirm the uprising of the inmates.

Six boys, inspired by the thought that this was Halloween — and anything goes on Halloween because boys will be boys and what’s wrong with letting go once a year — six boys dragged a twelve-year-old girl into an alley and raped her one after the other because she was carrying a shopping bag full of Halloween treats that she refused to share with them. The boys ranged in age from sixteen to eighteen, and none of them would have given a seventh-grade girl a glance had this not been the day of the year when the banshees were supposed to howl.

Over on South Eleventh, a high-school senior shoved her classmate off the roof because she insisted on chalking “Irene Loves Pete” in a heart on the roof’s brick parapet. Irene explained to the police that she did not love Pete, she really loved Joey, and she had pleaded with her friend not to write such libel on the wall, but her friend had insisted, so she had shoved her over the low parapet. She could not explain why she had shouted, “Halloween!” as her friend plummeted the seven stories to the pavement below.

On Culver Avenue, a grownup man chasing a fifteen-year-old boy who had sprayed shaving cream onto the windows of his parked automobile only happened to knock down a woman wheeling a baby carriage, which baby carriage and its four-month-old occupant rolled into the street to be squashed flat by an oncoming milk truck. The man told the police that he was of course sorry about the accident, but why didn’t they do something about all this rampant vandalism?

On The Stem, near Twentieth Street, two enterprising professionals entered a delicatessen wearing rubber Halloween masks, shouted “Trick or treat!” at the owner of the place, and promptly stuck loaded revolvers across the counter. The owner, imbued with a bit of Halloween spirit himself, threw a pound and a half of pastrami at one of the men and then stabbed the other with a very sharp carving knife that entered his throat just where the rubber mask ended. The second man, his mask and his coat dripping very good lean pastrami, fired at the owner and left him dead, and a kid running past the shop did a little excited jig in the doorway and chanted, “Halloween, Halloween, Halloween.”

It was a great little holiday, Halloween.

Cops just loved it.

Nevertheless, at 6:00 on Allhallows Even, after a tiring day of inactivity on the Leyden case and all sorts of activity in the streets preventing and discouraging mayhem, not to mention arresting people here and there who had allowed their celebrating to become a bit too uninhibited, Steve Carella watched his wife as she painted the face of his son, and prepared to go out into the streets once again.

“I got a great idea, Pop,” Mark said. He was the oldest of the twins by seven minutes, which gave him seniority as well as masculine superiority over his sister April. It was Mark who generally had the “great” ideas and April who invariably put him down with something sweet like, “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard in my life.”

“What’s your idea?” Carella asked.

“I think we should go to Mr. Oberman’s house—”

“Oberman the Creep,” April observed.

“That’s not a nice way to talk about an old man,” Carella said.

“But he is a creep, Daddy.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Carella said.

“Anyway,” Mark said, “I think we should go to his house, and April and me’ll knock on the door—”

“April and I,” Carella corrected.

Mark looked up at his father, wondering whether he should try to joke about, “Oh, are you going to knock on the door, too?” and decided in his infinite wisdom that he’d better not risk it, even though it had gone over pretty well once with Miss Rutherford, who taught the third grade at the local elementary school. “April and I,” he said, and smiled at his father angelically, and then beamed at his mother as she continued drawing a black mustache under his nose, and then said, “April and I will knock on Mr. Oberman’s door and yell, ‘Trick or treat,’ and when he opens it, you stick your gun in his face.”

Teddy, who was watching her son’s lips as he talked, shook her head violently, and looked up at her husband. Before Carella could answer, April said, “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard in my life,” her life to date having consisted of eight years, four months, and ten days.

Mark said, “Shut up, who asked you?” and Teddy scowled at her husband, warning him to put an end to this before it got out of hand, and then grasping both of Mark’s shoulders to turn him toward her so that she could properly finish the job. She was using felt-tipped watercolor markers, and whereas her makeup artistry might not have passed muster with the National Repertory, it looked pretty good to her from where she knelt beside her son. She had enlarged and angled Mark’s eyebrows with the black marker, and had then used green eye shadow on his lids, and the black marker again to draw a sinister, drooping mustache and an evil-looking goatee. Her son was supposed to be Dracula, who did not have either a mustache or a beard, but she felt he looked far too cherubic without them, and had taken artistic license with the Bram Stoker character. She was now using the bright-red marker to paint in a few drops of blood under his lip, and since her back was to Carella, she did not hear him admonish Mark first for his idiotic idea about brandishing a real gun, and next for yelling at his sister. She dotted a last tiny dribble of blood below the other three larger drops, and then rose and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“How do I look?” Mark asked Carella.

“Horrible.”

“Great!” Mark shouted, and ran out of the room to search for a mirror.

“Make me pretty, Mommy,” April said, looking directly up at her mother. Teddy smiled, and then slowly and carefully moved her fingers in the universal language of the deaf-mute while Carella and the little girl watched.

“She says she doesn’t have to make you pretty,” Carella said. “You are pretty.”

“I could read almost all of it,” April said, and hugged Teddy fiercely. “I’m the Good Princess, you know,” she said to her father.

“That’s true, you are the Good Princess.”

“Are there bad princesses, too?”

Teddy was replacing the caps on the felt-tipped markers to keep them from drying out. She smiled at her daughter, shook her head, reached into her purse for a lipstick tube, and then carried it to where April waited patiently for the touches that would transform her into a true good princess. Kneeling before her, Teddy expertly began to apply the lipstick. The two looked remarkably alike, the same brown eyes and black hair, the clearly defined widow’s peak, the long lashes and generous mouth. April wore a long gown and cape fashioned of hunter-green velvet by Fanny, their housekeeper. Teddy wore tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair falling onto her cheek now as she bent her head, concentrating on the line of April’s mouth. She touched her fingertip to the lipstick and brushed a bit of it onto each of April’s cheeks, blending it, and then reached for the eye shadow she had used on her son, using it more subtly on April’s lids, mindful of the fact that her daughter was not supposed to be a bloodthirsty vampire. Using a mascara brush, she darkened April’s lashes and then turned her to face Carella.

“Beautiful,” Carella said. “Go look at yourself.”

“Am I, Mommy?” April asked and, without waiting for an affirming nod, scurried out of the room.

Fanny came in not a moment later, grinning.

“There’s a horrid little beast rushing all about the kitchen with blood dripping from his mouth,” she said, and then, pretending to notice Carella for the first time even though he’d been home for more than half an hour, added, “Well, it’s himself. And will you be taking the children out for their mischief?”

“I will,” Carella said.

“Mind you’re back by seven, because that’s when the roast’ll be done.”

“I’ll be back by seven,” Carella promised. To Teddy, he said, “I thought you said there were no bad princesses.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Fanny asked.

She had come to the Carellas more than eight years ago as a one-month gift from Teddy’s father, who had felt his daughter needed at least that much time to rearrange the household after the birth of twins. In those days Fanny’s hair was blue, and she wore a pince-nez, and she weighed 150 pounds. The prepaid month had gone by all too quickly, and Carella had regretfully informed her that he could not afford a full-time housekeeper on his meager salary. But Fanny was an indomitable broad who had never had a family of her own, and who rather liked this one. So she told Carella he could pay her whatever he might scrape up for the time being, and she would supplement her income with night jobs, she being a trained nurse and a very strong healthy woman to boot. Carella had flatly refused, and Fanny had put her hands on her hips and said, “Are you going to throw me out into the street, is that it?” and they had argued back and forth, and Fanny had stayed. She was still with them. Her hair was now bleached red, and she wore harlequin glasses with black frames, and her weight was down to 140 as a result of chasing after two very lively children. Her influence on the family unit was perhaps best reflected in the speech of the twins. As infants, they’d been alone with her and their mother for much of the day, and since Teddy could not utter a word, much of their language had been patterned after Fanny’s. It was not unusual to hear Mark referring to someone as a lace-curtain shanty Irish son of a B, or little April telling a playmate to go scratch her arse. It made life colorful, to say the least.

Fanny stood now with her hands on her ample hips, daring Carella to explain what he had meant by his last remark. Carella fixed her with a menacing detective-type stare and said, “I was referring, dear, to the fact that you are sometimes overbearing and raucous and could conceivably be thought of as a bad princess, that is what it’s supposed to mean,” and Fanny burst out laughing.

“How can you live with such a beast?” she asked Teddy, still laughing, and then went out of the room, wagging her head.

“Daddy, are you coming?” Mark shouted.

“Yes, son,” he answered.

He folded Teddy into his arms and kissed her. Then he went out into the living room and took his children one by each hand, and went out into the streets to ring doorbells with them. He almost forgot, but not quite, that he had seen a seventeen-year-old girl squashed flat on the pavement today because she had scrawled “Irene Loves Pete” into a heart on the brick parapet of a roof.

The call to the squadroom came at 9:45 P.M.

Meyer Meyer, who was alone and catching, picked up the receiver and said, “87th Squad. Detective Meyer.”

“This is Patrolman Breach,” the voice said, “Benny Breach.”

“Yeah, Benny?”

“I figured I’d better call this one in. I was passing a bar on Culver and the owner of the place stopped me and asked me to come inside.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, so I went in and there’s a guy standing on one of the tables and saying all sorts of crazy things.”

“Like what, Benny?”

“Like he said he killed some dame.”

The guy who had said he’d killed a girl was a huge man, six feet five inches tall and weighing more than 200 pounds. His nose was massive, his cheekbones high with an angled, chiseled look, his mouth wide, his chin rough-hewn. When he came into the squadroom with Patrolman Breach, he was still reeling a bit from the effects of all the alcohol he’d consumed.

“What is the matter here in this city,” he asked, his words slurred, “when a man can’t have a few little drinks without the police picking him up like this in this city?”

“He’s been drinking pretty heavy, sir,” Breach said.

“Yeah,” Meyer answered. “See if there’s any coffee in the Clerical Office, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Breach said, and went down the corridor.

“I am not drunk,” the man said.

“What’s your name?” Meyer asked.

“That is my business.”

“All right, if you’re not drunk, then please listen to what I’m going to say now, because it can be important to you.”

“I’m listening,” the man said.

“In keeping with the Supreme Court decision of 1966 in the case of Miranda versus Arizona, I’m required to advise you of your rights, and that’s what I’m doing now.”

“Fine,” the man said.

“First, you have the right to remain silent if you choose, do you understand that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you also understand that you do not have to answer any police questions?”

“Oh, sure.”

“And do you understand that if you do answer questions, your answers may be used as evidence against you?”

“Yep, yep. Yep.”

“You have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning, do you understand that?”

“Perfect, perfect.”

“And if you decide to exercise that right but do not have the funds with which to hire counsel, you are entitled to have a lawyer appointed without cost, to consult with him before or during questioning. Have you got that?”

“Got it. Right on the button.”

“Do you understand all of your rights as I’ve just explained them to you?”

“No, I don’t,” the man answered, and grinned drunkenly.

Meyer sighed. “Breach,” he said, “are you getting that coffee?”

“Coming!” Breach called.

In the silence of the squadroom, they gave the man three cups of coffee to drink, and when Meyer was sure he was reasonably sober, he went through the entire Miranda-Escobedo bit again, and ended his warnings by saying, “Are you willing to answer questions without the presence of an attorney?”

“What?”

“Do you want a lawyer or don’t you?”

“Why do I need a lawyer?”

“That’s for you to decide. Are you willing to answer questions without one?”

“I am,” the man said.

“All right, what’s your name?”

“I refuse to answer that question.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want my mother to know I’ve been inside a police station.”

“Why? Are you afraid she’ll find out why we brought you here?”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Because I was drunk?”

“No, that’s not the reason.”

“Then what is the reason? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Do you remember what you said in the bar?”

“No.”

“Do you remember getting up on one of the tables and making an announcement to everyone in the bar?”

“No.”

“Patrolman Breach, would you tell this man what he said?”

Breach looked embarrassed for a moment. He shrugged, and then said, “Mister, you got up on one of the tables and said you killed some girl.”

“I never said anything like that.”

“Yes, you did. You were saying it to everybody in the bar even before I come in. By the time I got there, you were up on one of the tables waving your drink around and telling everybody you’d killed a girl and got away with it.”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what you said,” Breach insisted.

“I was drunk. If I said anything like that, I must have made it up.”

“You never killed anybody, is that right?” Meyer asked.

“Never.”

“Then why’d you make up such a thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have realized somebody would call the police.”

“Well, I was drunk,” the man said.

He had a polite, shy manner about him now that he was sober. Looking at him, Meyer saw that his immense hands were brown and calloused, like a farmer’s.

“Do you live here in the city, sir?” he asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Where do you live?”

“Is there any more of that coffee?”

“Breach?”

“I’ll get some,” Breach said.

“Where do you live?” Meyer repeated.

“Upstate.”

“Where?”

“Carey. It’s near Huddleston. On route 190, the turnoff just before the road to Mount Torrance.”

“What are you doing here in the city?” Meyer asked.

“Just down for a few days.”

“On business or pleasure?”

“Business mostly.”

“What’s your business?”

“Woodenware. We’ve got a little shop up home, and we make coffee tables, bowls, spoons, things like that. Out of wood. I come into the city every so often to sell it.”

“When were you here last?”

“Oh, I guess it was April sometime.”

“When did you get to the city this time?”

“Last Thursday.”

“Mmm-huh,” Meyer said. “What about this girl you killed?”

“I didn’t kill any girl.”

“Who did you kill?”

“Nobody.”

“You said you killed a girl.”

“I said it when I was drunk. If I said it.”

“What’s your name, mister?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“We can find out, you know.”

“Then find out.”

“Look, mister, you’d better start leveling with me, because I can tell you this is a pretty serious matter here. A woman was found dead in her apartment about a mile from where we picked you up tonight, and indications are that she was killed last Friday night sometime. Now, suppose you tell me just where you were at that time?”

“When you were telling me my rights, you said I didn’t have to answer any questions if I didn’t want to.”

“That’s what I said.”

The man paused. “All right,” he said, “I don’t want to answer any more questions,” and that was when Cotton Hawes walked into the squadroom.

“A madhouse out there,” he said to Meyer, “gets worse every goddamn year.” He glanced at the man, turned away from him, turned back to him again, and then said, “Don’t I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” the man said.

“Sure, I do,” Hawes said, and walked closer to the desk and peered into his face, frowning, trying to remember. “Didn’t we... ?” he started, and then hesitated, thinking.

“Do you make him, Cotton?”

“Not yet. Why? What’s he done?”

“Says he killed a girl.”

“Yeah?”

“I was drunk when I said it.”

“Who was the girl?” Hawes asked, still staring at him.

“I don’t have to answer you,” the man said.

“Got it!” Hawes said, and snapped his fingers. “Your name’s Roger Broome, we talked to you about a refrigerator that was stolen from the basement of a rooming house. This must’ve been three, four years ago. Am I right?”

The man remained silent.

“Is that your name?” Meyer said.

“Yes,” he said at last. “That’s my name.”

“What’d you say that beef was?” Meyer asked Hawes.

“Landlady over on Twelfth had a refrigerator swiped from her basement,” Hawes said. “We questioned all her tenants. Mr. Broome here was one of them.” He turned to Broome and said, “I remember telling you I’d skied Mount Torrance. You live up there near Huddleston, don’t you?”

“Yes, in Carey,” Broome said.

“Sure, I remember,” Hawes said.

“So now you’re in trouble again,” Meyer said.

“I didn’t steal her refrigerator!” Broome said.

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know!”

“All right, don’t get so excited.”

“I want a lawyer,” Broome said. “I want to call my mother.”

“Just a little while ago, you said you didn’t want a lawyer.”

“I want one now.”

“Why? You going to tell us what happened?”

“Nothing happened. I didn’t steal her refrigerator.”

“But you did kill some girl, huh?”

“No. What’s one thing got to do with the other?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Broome. Suppose you tell us.”

“I want to call my mother.”

“Why?”

“To tell her... to let her know everything’s all right. To... to... I want to call her.”

“I thought you wanted a lawyer?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you afford one, Mr. Broome? Or shall we get one for you?”

“I don’t know any lawyers in this city.”

“Shall we get one for you?”

“Yes. If you’re going to trick me into saying things—”

“We’re not going to trick you into anything,” Meyer said. “Cotton, call Legal Aid. We need a lawyer up here right away.”

“I asked for some coffee,” Broome said. “Where’s my coffee?”

“Breach!” Meyer yelled.

“Coming!” Breach yelled back.

It is difficult to determine why a man who has lived with guilt for such a long time will suddenly decide to tell everything. Go ask Theodor Reik. Perhaps, in the case of Roger Broome, it was merely the sudden appearance of Hawes that convinced him the jig was up. But then, how would that explain his getting up on a barroom table and announcing to the world that he had killed a girl and got away with it?

Now, in the midnight stillness of the squadroom, in the presence of two detectives, a police stenographer, and an appointed lawyer, Roger Broome told them everything, told them without any sense of relief, told them simply and directly and in a flat monotone about the girl he had met one winter, this must have been five years ago, no, it was only four, the month was February, a day or two before Valentine’s Day, he could remember buying a card for his mother and also one for the landlady of the rooming house where he was staying, a woman named Mrs. Dougherty. But that was after he had met the girl, after he had killed the girl.

The girl’s name was Molly Nolan, she had come here to the city from Sacramento, California, to look for a job. She was staying at a place called The Orquidea on Ainsley Avenue, he had met her in a bar, had a few drinks with her, and then had taken her back to his room at Mrs. Dougherty’s. She was a redheaded girl, not pretty, not at all pretty, but he had taken her to bed with him, and had told her she was beautiful, and then — he did not know why — he had suddenly begun hitting her, first in the eye, and then in the nose, making her bleed, and seeing that she was about to start screaming he had reached out quickly and grabbed her throat in his hands and squeezed her until she was dead.

He had carried her out of his room in the dead of night, down to the basement, where he had stuffed her into the old refrigerator after removing all the shelves. He had had to break both her legs to get her inside, he told them, and then he’d carried the refrigerator out to his truck and drove to a bridge someplace, he didn’t remember the name of it but he could show them where it was, he had driven over that same bridge many times since and wondered each time if the refrigerator with the dead girl in it was still in the mud on the bottom of the river where he had dropped it that night so long ago.

He suddenly asked if the detective with the deaf and dumb wife still worked here, surprising them all, and then he began weeping and at last said, “My mother’ll kill me,” and signed three copies of the typed confession.

It was nice to solve old cases.

The lady who had been stabbed, however, the lady named Margie Ryder was still with them.