The Mugger

7

The girl’s legs were crossed.

She sat opposite Willis and Byrnes in the lieutenant’s office on the second floor of the 87th Precinct. They were good legs. The skirt reached to just a shade below her knees, and Willis could not help noticing they were good legs. Sleek and clean, full-calved, tapering to slender ankles, enhanced by the high-heeled black-patent pumps.

The girl was a redhead, and that was good. Red hair is obvious hair. The girl had a pretty face, with a small Irish nose and green eyes. She listened to the men in serious silence, and you could feel intelligence on her face and in her eyes. Occasionally, she sucked in a deep breath, and when she did, the severe cut of her suit did nothing to hide the sloping curve of her breast.

The girl earned $5,555 a year. The girl had a .38 in her purse.

The girl was a detective/2nd grade, and her name was Eileen Burke, as Irish as her nose.

“You don’t have to take this one if you don’t want it, Miss Burke,” Byrnes said.

“It sounds interesting,” Eileen answered.

“Hal — Willis’ll be following close behind all the way, you understand. But that’s no guarantee he can get to you in time should anything happen.”

“I understand that, sir,” Eileen said.

“And Clifford isn’t such a gentleman,” Willis said. “He’s beaten, and he’s killed. Or at least we think so. It might not be such a picnic.”

“We don’t think he’s armed, but he used something on his last job, and it wasn’t his fist. So you see, Miss Burke—”

“What we’re trying to tell you,” Willis said, “is that you needn’t feel any compulsion to accept this assignment. We would understand completely were you to refuse it.”

“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?” Eileen asked.

“We’re simply asking you to make your own decision. We’re sending you out as a sitting duck, and we feel—”

“I won’t be such a sitting duck with a gun in my bag.”

“Still, we felt we should present the facts to you before—”

“My father was a patrolman,” Eileen said. “Pops Burke, they called him. He had a beat in Hades Hole. In 1938, an escaped convict named Flip Danielsen took an apartment on Prime and North Thirtieth. When the police closed in, my father was with them. Danielsen had a Thompson submachine gun in the apartment with him, and the first round he fired caught my father in the stomach. My father died that night, and he died painfully, because stomach wounds are not easy ones.” Eileen paused. “I think I’ll take the job.”

Byrnes smiled. “I knew you would,” he said.

“Will we be the only pair?” Eileen asked Willis.

“To start, yes. We’re not sure how this’ll work. I can’t follow too close, or Clifford’ll panic. And I can’t lag too far behind, or I’ll be worthless.”

“Do you think he’ll bite?”

“We don’t know. He’s been hitting in the precinct and getting away with it, so chances are he won’t change his m.o. — unless this killing has scared him. And from what the victims have given us, he seems to hit without any plan. He just waits for a victim and then pounces.”

“I see.”

“So we figured an attractive girl walking the streets late at night, apparently alone, might smoke him out.”

“I see.” Eileen let the compliment pass. There were about four million attractive girls in the city, and she knew she was no prettier than most. “Has there been any sex motive?” she asked.

Willis glanced at Byrnes. “Not that we can figure. He hasn’t molested any of his victims.”

“I was only trying to figure what I should wear,” Eileen said.

“Well, no hat,” Willis said. “That’s for sure. We want him to spot that red hair a mile away.”

“All right,” Eileen said.

“Something bright, so I won’t lose you — but nothing too flashy,” Willis said. “We don’t want the Vice Squad picking you up.”

Eileen smiled. “Sweater and skirt?” she asked.

“Whatever you’ll be most comfortable in.”

“I’ve got a white sweater,” she said. “That should be clearly visible to both you and Clifford.”

“Yes,” Willis said.

“Heels or flats?”

“Entirely up to you. You may have to… Well, he may give you a rough time. If heels hamper you, wear flats.”

“He can hear heels better,” Eileen said.

“It’s up to you.”

“I’ll wear heels.”

“All right.”

“Will anyone else be in on this? I mean, will you have a walkie-talkie or anything?”

“No,” Willis said, “it’d be too obvious. There’ll be just the two of us.”

“And Clifford, we hope.”

“Yes,” Willis said.

Eileen Burke sighed. “When do we start?”

“Tonight?” Willis asked.

“I was going to have my hair done,” Eileen said, smiling, “but I suppose that can wait.” The smile broadened. “It isn’t every girl who can be sure at least one man is following her.”

“Can you meet me here?”

“What time?” Eileen asked.

“When the shift changes. Eleven forty-five?”

“I’ll be here,” she said. She uncrossed her legs and rose. “Lieutenant,” she said, and Byrnes took her hand.

“Be careful, won’t you?” Byrnes said.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She turned to Willis. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Good-bye now,” she said, and she left the office.

When she had gone, Willis asked, “What do you think?”

“I think she’ll be okay,” Byrnes said. “She’s got a record of fourteen subway-masher arrests.”

“Mashers aren’t muggers,” Willis said.

Byrnes nodded reflectively. “I still think she’ll be okay.”

Willis smiled. “I think so, too,” he said.

In the squadroom outside, Detective Meyer was talking about cats.

“The tally is now up to twenty-four,” he told Temple. The damnedest thing the 33rd has ever come across.”

Temple scratched his chin. “And they got no lead yet, huh?”

“Not a single clue,” Meyer said. He watched Temple patiently. Meyer was a very patient man.

“He just goes around grabbing cats,” Temple said, shaking his head. “What would a guy want to steal cats for?”

“That’s the big question,” Meyer said. “What’s the motive? He’s got the 33rd going crazy. I’ll tell you something, I’m glad this one isn’t in our laps.”

“Argh,” Temple said, “I’ve had some goofy ones in my time, too.”

“Sure, but cats? Have you ever had cats?”

“I had cats up telephone poles when I was walking a beat,” Temple said.

“Everybody had cats up telephone poles,” Meyer said. “But this is a man who’s going around stealing cats from apartments. Now, tell me, George, have you ever heard anything like that?”

“Never,” Temple said.

“I’ll let you know how it works out,” Meyer promised. “I’m really interested in this one. Tell you the truth, I don’t think they’ll ever crack it.”

“The 33rd is pretty good, ain’t it?” Temple asked.

“There’s a guy waiting outside,” Havilland shouted from his desk. “Ain’t anybody gonna see what he wants?”

“The walk’ll do you good, Rog,” Meyer said.

“I just took a walk to the water cooler,” Havilland said, grinning. “I’m bushed.”

“He’s very anemic,” Meyer said, rising. “Poor fellow, my heart bleeds for him.” He walked to the slatted rail divider. A patrolman was standing there, looking into the squadroom.

“Busy, huh?” he asked.

“So-so,” Meyer said indifferently. “What’ve you got?”

“An autopsy report for…” He glanced at the envelope. “Lieutenant Peter Byrnes.”

“I’ll take it,” Meyer said.

“Sign this, will you?” the patrolman said.

“He can’t write,” Havilland answered, propping his feet up on the desk.

Meyer signed for the autopsy report. The patrolman left.

An autopsy report is a coldly scientific thing.

It reduces flesh and blood to medical terms, measuring in centimeters, analyzing with calm aloofness. There is very little warmth and emotion in an autopsy report. There is no room for sentiment, no room for philosophizing. There is only one or more eight-and-half-by-eleven sheets of official-looking paper, and there are type-written words on the sheets, and those words explain in straightforward medical English the conditions under which such and such a person met death.

The person whose death was open to medical scrutiny in the autopsy report that Meyer brought to the lieutenant was a young girl named Jeannie Rita Paige.

The words were very cold.

Death is not famous for its compassion.

The words read: