The Mugger

6

Lieutenant Byrnes studied the information on the printed sheet.

Translated into English, it simply meant that somebody had goofed. The body had been taken to the mortuary, and some young intern there had probably very carefully studied the broken face and the shattered skull and come up with the remarkable conclusion that death had been caused by “brain concussion apparently.” He could understand why a full report was not on his desk, but even understanding, the knowledge griped him. He could not expect people, he supposed, to go gallivanting around in the middle of the night — the body had probably been delivered to the mortuary in the wee hours — trying to discover whether or not a stomach holds poison. No, of course not. Nobody starts work until 9:00 in the morning, and nobody works after 5:00 in the afternoon. A wonderful country. Short hours for everyone.

Except the fellow who killed this girl, of course.

He hadn’t minded a little overtime, not him.

Seventeen years old, Byrnes thought. My son is seventeen!

He walked to the door of his office. He was a short, solidly packed man with a head that seemed to have been blasted loose from a huge chunk of granite. He had small blue eyes, which constantly darted, perpetually alert. He didn’t like people getting killed. He didn’t like young girls getting their heads smashed in. He opened the door.

“Hal!” he called.

Willis looked up from his desk.

“Come in here, will you?” He left the door and began pacing the office. Willis came into the room and stood quietly, his hands behind his back.

“Anything on those sunglasses yet?” Byrnes asked, still pacing.

“No, sir. There was a good thumbprint on the unbroken lens, but it’s not likely we’ll get a make on a single print.”

“What about your pal? The one you brought in last night?”

“Randolph. He’s mad as hell because I conned him into making a full confession to a cop. I think he suspects it won’t stand up in court, though. He’s screaming for a lawyer right now.”

“I’m talking about the thumbprint.”

“It doesn’t match up with his, sir,” Willis said.

“Think it’s the girl’s?”

“No, sir, it isn’t. We’ve already checked that.”

“Then Randolph isn’t our man.”

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t think he was, anyway. This girl was probably knocked over while Randolph was with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a goddamn shame,” Byrnes said, “a goddamn shame.” He began pacing again. “What’s Homicide North doing?”

“They’re on it, sir. Rounding up all sex offenders.”

“We can give them a hand with that. Check our files and put the boys to work, will you?” He paused. “You think our mugger did this?”

“The sunglasses might indicate that, sir.”

“So Clifford’s finally crossed the line, the bastard.”

“It’s a possibility, sir.”

“My name is Pete,” Byrnes said. “Why the formality?”

“Well, sir, I had an idea.”

“About this thing?”

“Yes, sir. If our mugger did it, sir.”

“Pete!” Byrnes roared.

“Pete, this murderer is terrorizing the city. Did you see the papers this morning? A seventeen-year-old kid, her face beaten to a bloody pulp! In our precinct, Pete. Okay, it’s a rotten precinct. It stinks to high heaven, and there are people who think it’ll always stink. But it burns me up, Pete. It makes me sore.”

“This precinct isn’t so bad,” Byrnes said reflectively.

“Ah, Pete,” Willis said, sighing.

“All right, it smells. We’re doing our best. What the hell do they expect here? Snob Hill?”

“No. But we’ve got to give them protection, Pete.”

“We are, aren’t we? Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, every goddamn year. It’s only the big things that make the papers. This goddamn mugger—”

“That’s why we have to get him. Homicide North’ll dicker around with this thing forever. Another body. All Homicide cops see is bodies. You think another one’s going to get them in an uproar?”

“They do a good job,” Byrnes said.

“I know, I know,” Willis said impatiently. “But I think my idea’ll help them.”

“Okay,” Byrnes said, “let’s hear it.”

The living room on that Friday afternoon was silent with the pallor of death. Molly Bell had done all her crying, and there were no more tears inside her, and so she sat silently, and her husband sat opposite her, and Bert Kling stood uneasily by the door, wondering why he had come.

He could clearly remember the girl Jeannie when she’d called him back as he was leaving Wednesday night. Incredible beauty, and etched beneath the beauty the clutching claws of trouble and worry. And now she was dead. And, oddly, he felt somehow responsible.

“Did she say anything to you?” Bell asked.

“Not much,” Kling replied. “She seemed troubled about something… seemed… very cynical and bitter for a kid her age. I don’t know.” He shook his head.

“I knew there was something wrong,” Molly said. Her voice was very low, barely audible. She clutched a handkerchief in her lap, but the handkerchief was dry now, and there were no more tears to wet it.

“The police think it’s the mugger, honey,” Bell said gently.

“Yes,” Molly said. “I know what they think.”

“Honey, I know you feel—”

“But what was she doing in Isola? Who took her to that deserted spot near the Hamilton Bridge? Did she go there alone, Peter?”

“I suppose so,” Bell said.

“Why would she go there alone? Why would a seventeen-year-old girl go to a lonely spot like that?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Bell said. “Honey, please, don’t get yourself all upset again. The police will find him. The police will—”

“Find who?” Molly said. “The mugger? But will they find whoever took her to that spot? Peter, it’s all the way down in Isola. Why should she go there from Riverhead?”

Bell shook his head again. “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”

“We’ll find him, Molly,” Kling said. “Both Homicide North and the detectives in my precinct will be working on this one. Don’t worry.”

“And when you find him,” Molly asked, “will that bring my sister back to life?”

Kling watched her, an old woman at twenty-four, sitting in her chair with her shoulders slumped, mourning a life and carrying a new life within her. They were silent for a long time. Finally, Kling said he had to be leaving, and Molly graciously asked if he wouldn’t like a cup of coffee. He said no, and he thanked her, and then he shook hands with Bell and went outside, where the brittle afternoon sunlight washed the streets of Riverhead.

The kids were piling out of the junior high school up the street, and Kling watched them as he walked, young kids with clean-scrubbed faces, rowdy boys and pretty girls, chasing each other, shouting at each other, discovering each other.

Jeannie Paige had been a kid like this not many years ago.

He walked slowly.

There was a bite in the air, a bite that made him wish winter would come soon. It was a peculiar wish, because he truly loved autumn. It was strange, he supposed, because autumn was a time of dying, summer going quietly to rest, dying leaves, and dying days, and…

Dying girls.

He shook the thought aside. On the corner opposite the junior high, a hot dog cart stood, and the proprietor wore a white apron, and he owned a moustache and a bright smile, and he dipped his fork into the steaming frankfurter pot and then into the sauerkraut pot, and then he put the fork down and took the round stick from the mustard jar and spread the mustard and handed the completed masterpiece to a girl of no more than fourteen who stood near the cart. She paid for the frankfurter, and there was pure joy on her face as she bit into it, and Kling watched her and then walked on.

A dog darted into the gutter, leaping and frisking, chasing a rubber ball that had bounced from the sidewalk. A car skidded to a stop, tires screeching, and the driver shook his head and then smiled unconsciously when he saw the happy pup.

The leaves fell toward the pavement, oranges and reds and yellows and russets and browns and pale golds, and they covered the sidewalks with crunching mounds. He listened to the rasp of the leaves underfoot as he walked, and he sucked in the brisk fall air, and he thought, It isn’t fair; she had so much living to do.

A cold wind came up when he hit the avenue. He started for the elevated station, and the wind rushed through the jacket he wore, touching the marrow of his bones.

The voices of the junior-high-school kids were far behind him now, up De Witt Street, drowned in the controlled shriek of the new wind.

He wondered if it would rain.

The wind howled around him, and it spoke of secret tangled places, and it spoke of death, and he was suddenly colder than he’d been before, and he wished for the comforting warmth of a coat collar, because a chill suddenly worked its way up his spine to settle at the back of his neck like a cold, dead fish.

He walked to the station and climbed the steps, and curiously, he was thinking of Jeannie Paige.