Ten Plus One

17

There were no buildings across the street from the station house: there was only a park. And there were no trees behind the low stone wall that bordered the sidewalk. They found a discharged shell behind the wall, and they assumed that the killer had fired from there, at a much closer range than usual, blowing away half of Cohen’s head. Kling had immediately run out of the muster room, and down the precinct steps, and across the street into the park, chasing aimlessly along paths and into bushes, but the killer was gone. There was only the sound of the whirling carousel in the distance.

The precinct patrolmen were beginning to think this was all very funny. A guy getting killed on the steps of the station house was a pretty macabre piece of humor, but they enjoyed the fun of it nonetheless. They were all aware that the detectives upstairs had called in the DA that afternoon, and they were also aware that Cohen had been held in the squadroom for a damn long time, and they joked now about the fact that he could no longer bring charges of false arrest since someone had very conveniently murdered him. One of the patrolmen jokingly said that all the detectives had to do was wait long enough and then everybody who’d been in that play would be dead, and the killings would automatically stop, and they could all go home to sleep. Another of the patrolmen had a better idea. He figured it was simply a process of elimination. As soon as the killer had murdered everybody but one, why then the remaining person was obviously the murderer of all the others.

Carella didn’t think it was so funny. He knew that neither Thomas Di Pasquale nor Helen Vale had put that bullet in Cohen’s head because they both were being escorted around the city by patrolmen who never let them out of sight. On the other hand, Lewis and Margaret Redfield had left the squadroom at 1:00, some three hours before Cohen walked down those steps and into a Remington .308 slug. Detective Meyer Meyer was sent promptly to the Redfield apartment on the corner of Grover and Forty-first in Isola, where he was told that Margaret Redfield had gone directly to the beauty parlor after leaving the squadroom, apparently feeling in need of treatment after her cathartic experience. Lewis Redfield told Meyer he had gone to his office on Curwin Street after leaving the squadroom, and stayed there until 5:00 P.M., at which time he had come home. He could remember, in fact, dictating some letters to his secretary, and then attending a meeting at 3:00 P.M. A call to the office verified the fact that Redfield had come to work at about 1:30 and had not left until 5:00. They could not say where he was specifically at 4:00 when Cohen was murdered, but there seemed little doubt he was somewhere in the office. Nonetheless, because that narrow margin of doubt did exist, Meyer phoned Carella at the squadroom to tell him he was going to stick to the Redfields for a while. Carella agreed that the tail was a good idea, and then he went home to dinner. Neither he nor Meyer thought the case was very funny. In fact, they were sick to death of it.

And then, oddly, considering how lightly the patrolmen were taking all this grisly slaughter, it was a patrolman who provided the next possibility for action in the case, and then only indirectly through a call from Captain Frick at 11:00 that night, while Carella was home and trying to read the newspaper.

When he heard the phone ring, he glanced at it sourly, rose from his easy chair in the living room, and quickly walked into the foyer. He picked the receiver from the cradle and said, “Hello?”

“Steve, this is Captain Frick. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, no. What is it?”

“I hate to bother you on this, but I’m still here at the office trying to get these time sheets straightened out.”

“What time sheets are those, Marshall?”

“On my patrolmen.”

“Oh, yes. Well what is it?”

“Well, I’ve got Antonino listed as being with this Helen Vale woman from eight this morning until four this afternoon, when he was relieved by Boardman, who’ll be on until midnight. That right?”

“I guess so,” Carella said.

“Okay. And Samalman was supposed to be with this guy Di Pasquale from eight this morning until four this afternoon, but I see here on his sheet he left at three. And I see that Canavan, who was supposed to relieve him at four, called in at nine P.M. to say he had just relieved on post. Now, I don’t get that, Steve. Did you give these guys permission for this?”

“What do you mean, Marshall? Are you saying nobody was with Di Pasquale from three o’clock this afternoon to nine o’clock tonight?”

“That’s what it looks like. Judging from these time sheets.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“Did you give them permission?”

“No,” Carella said. “I didn’t give them permission.”

Thomas Di Pasquale had a patrolman at his door and a woman in his apartment when Carella arrived that night. The patrolman moved aside to allow his superior to ring the doorbell. Carella rang it with dispatch, and then waited for Di Pasquale to answer the ring. Di Pasquale’s dispatch did not equal Carella’s, since he was all the way in the bedroom at the other end of the apartment, and he had to put on a robe and slippers and then come trotting through six rooms to the front door. When he opened the door, he looked out at a face he had never seen before.

“Okay, what’s the gag?” he asked.

“Mr. Di Pasquale?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m Detective Carella.”

“That’s very nice. Do you know it’s eleven-thirty at night?”

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Di Pasquale, but I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Can’t they wait till morning?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“I don’t have to let you in, you know. I can tell you to go whistle.”

“You can do that, sir, that’s true. In which case I’d be forced to swear out a warrant for your arrest.”

“Hey, sonny boy, you think you’re dealing with a hick?” Di Pasquale said. “You can’t arrest me for anything, because I haven’t done anything.”

“How about suspicion of murder?”

“How about it? There’s no such crime as suspicion of anything. Murder? Don’t make me laugh. Who am I supposed to have killed?”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, can we discuss it inside?”

“Why? You afraid of waking the neighbors? You already woke me up, what difference will a few dozen others make? Argh, come in, come in. No damn manners, the police in this lousy town. Come around the middle of the night. Come in, for Chrissake, don’t stand there in the hall.”

They went into the apartment. Di Pasquale turned on a light in the living room, and they sat facing each other.

“So?” he said. “You’re here, you got me out of bed, so say what’s on your mind.”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, a man was shot and killed this afternoon at four o’clock as he was leaving the police station.”

“So?”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, we checked with the patrolman who was assigned to ‘protect’ you, and he tells us you let him go at three o’clock this afternoon. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Is it also true that you told him you wouldn’t be needing him again until nine o’clock this evening? Is that also true, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

“That’s true. So what? Is that why you come knocking on my door in the middle of the night? To check on whether or not your patrolman is telling the truth? Is that all you’ve got to do with your time? You’re the guy who called me up at seven-thirty one morning, ain’t you? You like waking people up, don’t you?”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, why’d you tell the patrolman you wouldn’t need him?”

“For the very simple reason that I was up at Columbia Pictures today talking a deal with the head of the story department. I went up there at three o’clock, and I expected to be there with him until six, at which time I knew we would both go downstairs where a chauffeured Cadillac would be waiting to take us to a very fancy restaurant where I wouldn’t be sitting near any windows. We would have a couple of drinks at the bar, and at seven o’clock we would be joined by a writer who would give a story line to the head of the story department, and then we would eat dinner, also not sitting near any windows. Then we would get right into the Cadillac again, and they would drive me home, where I asked that fathead patrolman to meet me—I see he isn’t even here, there’s some other jerk outside—and where also the young lady who is now asleep in the other room would be waiting for me. So you see, Mr. Carella who likes to wake up people in the middle of the night, I thought I would save the city a little money and also release a cop for active duty in spots all over the city where teenagers are bashing each other’s heads in, instead of hanging around me when I knew I’d be absolutely safe, that’s why, Mr. Carella. Does that answer your question?”

“Were you anywhere near the precinct today, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

“I was up at Columbia all afternoon, and then I went straight to dinner, and then I came straight here.”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, do you own any guns?”

“No.” Di Pasquale stood up angrily. “What is all this, would you mind telling me? How come I’m suddenly a suspect in this thing? What’s the matter? You running out of people?”

He had delivered his words in anger, but he had struck very close to the truth. They were running out of people. They had begun the case by grasping at straws, and they were still grasping at straws.

Carella sighed heavily. “I suppose the head of Columbia’s story department can corroborate…”

“You want to call him from here? I’ll give you his home number. Go ahead, why don’t you call him? You might as well wake up the whole goddamn city while you’re at it.”

“I think that can wait until morning,” Carella said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. Good night, Mr. Di Pasquale.”

“Can you find your way out?” Di Pasquale asked sarcastically.

It was close to the witching hour.

Meyer Meyer stood on the corner opposite the Redfields’ apartment building, and wondered if he should call it a day. He had positioned himself on the street corner at 6:00 that evening, and it was now 11:40, and he was certain the Redfields would turn out their lights soon and go to sleep. But at 7:00 that evening, Margaret Redfield had come down into the street with a Welsh terrier on a leash, and she had walked around the block and then returned to the building at 7:25. Meyer did not own a dog, but he was sure a 7:00 constitutional would not be the final promenade for a terrier kept in a city apartment. And yet, it was now 11:40—he glanced at his watch, no, 11:45—and there was no indication that either Margaret or Lewis Redfield would take the pooch down for another stroll before retiring, and besides, it was beginning to rain.

It was not a heavy rain at first; it was only a light, sharp drizzle that penetrated directly to the marrow. Standing on the corner, Meyer looked up again at the lit third-floor apartment window. He swore mildly under his breath, decided to go home, changed his mind, and crossed the street to stand under the awning outside a bakery. The bakery was closed. It was nearing midnight, and the streets were deserted. A strong wind suddenly came in off the river, pushing heavier rain clouds ahead of it. The deluge covered the street. The drizzle turned to a teeming downpour in a matter of seconds. Lightning streaked the sky over the tops of the buildings. Meyer stood under the awning and thought of a warm bed with Sarah beside him. He cursed the Redfields again, decided to go home, remembered that damn Welsh terrier, convinced himself the dog would be going for another walk, pulled up the collar of his coat, and again looked up at the lit third-floor window. The awning leaked. He glanced up at the tear in the canvas, and then switched his scrutiny back to the window.

The light went out.

There was what seemed like a half-hour of blackness, and then another light went on, the bedroom, he figured, and then a light came up behind a smaller window. The bathroom, Meyer thought. Thank God, they’re finally going to sleep. He waited. Both lights stayed on. On impulse, he walked across the street rapidly and into the building. The elevator was directly opposite the entrance doorway. He walked halfway into the lobby and looked up at the indicator over the closed elevator doors. The needle was stopped at the number six. He watched patiently for several moments, and suddenly the needle began to move. Five, four, three…the needle stopped again.

Three, he thought. The Redfields live on the third floor.

The needle was moving again.

He raced out of the building and crossed the street, taking up his position under the leaking awning, certain now that either Lewis or Margaret Redfield was coming downstairs with the dog before going to bed, and then wondering what the hell difference it made, and then wishing again he were home in bed. He kept his eyes on the doorway to the building. Margaret Redfield came out of the doorway, leading the terrier on a leash, just as the patrolman rounded the corner.

It was five minutes to midnight.

The patrolman glanced at Meyer as he passed him, took in the hatless, bald-headed man with the jacket collar turned up, standing outside a closed bakery, five to midnight, rain, empty streets…

The patrolman turned back.

The sniper was out of breath.

He had leaped the airshaft between the two buildings and taken up his position behind the parapet, looking down into the street now, the street empty and deserted, but knowing that she would soon turn the corner, knowing she would soon stroll leisurely up the block, leading the dog, knowing she would soon be dead, breathing hard, waiting.

The rifle felt long and lethal in his hands, more lethal because of the telescopic sight, bringing the street below into sharp focus. He sighted along the barrel at the lamppost in the middle of the block, far below, close to him because of the sight; she would make a good target.

He wondered if he should stop.

He wondered if she should be the last one, and then wondered if she shouldn’t have been the first one. He knew the dog would lead her to the lamppost. He knew she would stop there. He fixed the lamppost in the crossed hairs of the sight, and cursed the rain. He had not supposed the rain would make that much difference, and yet he could not see too clearly; he wondered if he should wait until another time.

No.

You bastards, he thought.

You, he thought.

I should have taken care of you first.

The rain drummed on his shoulders and his head. He was wearing a black raincoat, wearing the night around him, hidden by the night he felt a thrill of anticipation as he waited for her. Where are you, he thought, come walk into my rifle, come walk into my sight, come let me kill you, come, come, come.

The dog stopped alongside the fire hydrant on the corner. He sniffed, hesitated, sniffed again. Meyer, who was watching Margaret and the dog intently, didn’t even see the patrolman approaching.

“What’s the trouble, mister?” the patrolman said.

“Huh?” Meyer answered, startled.

“What are you standing around here for?”

A grin came onto Meyer’s face. Of all times for a cop to get conscientious, he thought, and then he said, “Look, I’m…”

The patrolman shoved him. The patrolman had just come on duty, he had a little heartburn, and he wasn’t ready to take any crap from a suspicious character who looked as if he was planning a burglary. “Move along,” he said angrily. “Go on, move along.”

“Look,” Meyer said, the grin dropping from his face. “I happen to be a—”

“You gonna give me trouble?” the patrolman asked, and he grabbed Meyer’s right sleeve, twisting it in his fist.

At that moment, Margaret Redfield disappeared around the corner.

He saw her turn into the block. She was partially obscured by the rain, but he recognized her and the dog immediately.

He wiped the palms of his hands on his coat, realizing only afterward that the coat was wetter than his hands.

I’m going to kill you better than the others, he thought.

You bitch, I am going to kill you better.

He was no longer out of breath, but his heart was pounding furiously, and his hands had begun to tremble. He glanced over the parapet again, saw that she was coming steadily down the block.

There was a lot of wind. He would have to compensate for the wind.

He wiped the rain from his eyes.

He put the rifle to his shoulder.

He sighted again on the lamppost, waiting.

Come on, he thought.

Come on.

Goddamn you to hell, come on!

“I’m a detective,” Meyer said. “Let go of my sleeve!”

Instead of letting go of Meyer’s sleeve, the patrolman twisted his arm up behind his back and began frisking him for a gun, which of course he found immediately.

“You got a permit for this?” he asked, while across the street Meyer could see nothing, could hear only the clatter of Margaret’s heels around the corner.

“You goddamn fool,” Meyer said to the patrolman. “You want to find yourself walking a beat in Bethtown? Give me that gun!”

The patrolman suddenly recognized something in Meyer’s voice, a note of authority, a no-nonsense attitude that told him he might indeed be walking a beat in Bethtown if he didn’t cooperate with this bald bastard. He handed back the .38 immediately. Lamely he said, “You can understand…” But Meyer wasn’t in an understanding mood, nor did he even hear the patrolman’s words. He ran to the corner and turned it immediately. He could see Margaret Redfield halfway up the street, the dog hesitating near the lamppost, close to the curb. He began walking after her, ducking into doorways. He was perhaps 100 feet from her when she suddenly collapsed on the sidewalk.

He had heard no shot.

She fell swiftly and soundlessly, and the absence of sound magnified the event, because he knew she had been shot, and yet there was no clue to the sniper’s hiding place. He began running toward her, and then stopped, and then looked up at the rooftops on either side of the street, and realized suddenly that the shot could have come from any one of them. The terrier was barking now, no, not barking but wailing, a lonely terrible wail like the mournful sound of a coyote.

The woman, Meyer thought. Get to the woman.

The roof, he thought, get to the roof.

Which roof?

Where?

He stopped dead in the middle of the street.

The killer is up there somewhere, he thought, and his mind stopped working for a moment. The rain drumming around him, Margaret Redfield lying on the sidewalk ahead of him, the dog wailing, the patrolman coming around the corner curiously, Meyer’s mind clicked shut, he did not know what to do or where to turn.

He ran to the doorway of the building closest to the lamppost, ran reflexively, passing Margaret Redfield, who poured blood into the gutter while the dog wailed, ran without stopping to think it through, going there automatically because that was where the shot had most likely come from. Then he stopped on the sidewalk and shut his eyes for a moment, forced reason into his mind, forced himself to realize the killer would not come down on this block, he would leap the airshaft, cross over to one of the other buildings and try to make his escape either on the avenue or the next cross street.

He ran for the corner. He almost slipped on the slick, wet asphalt, regained his balance, ran with the gun in his right fist, pumping the air with both arms, reaching the corner and turning it, and running past the fire hydrant, and stopping before the entrance to the Redfields’ apartment building, and looking up at the still-lit windows, and then turning his eyes back to the street, and seeing nothing.

Where? he thought. Where are you?

He waited in the rain.

The patrolman discovered the body of Margaret Redfield around the corner. The terrier snapped at him when he tried to pick up her wrist to feel for a pulse beat. He kicked the dog in the chops with the side of his shoe, and then lifted her wrist. Blood was pouring down her arm from the wound in her shoulder. She was one hell of a mess, and it was raining, and the patrolman had heartburn.

But he had sense enough to know she wasn’t dead, and he immediately phoned the nearest hospital for an ambulance.

The sniper did not come down into the street where Meyer was waiting for him. Nor did Meyer suppose he was still on one of the roofs up there. No, he had guessed wrong, and that was that. The sniper had made his escape elsewhere, swallowed by the rain and the darkness, free to kill again.

As he holstered his gun, Meyer wondered how many mistakes a cop is allowed. Then, dejectedly, he looked up as he heard the sound of the approaching ambulance.