The Pusher

Chapter Seven

The lab report on the rope and the I.E. report on the fingerprints came in later that afternoon. There was only one piece of information in either of them that surprised Carella.

He was not surprised to learn that an analysis of the rope found around Hernandez' neck completely discounted the possibility of the boy having hanged himself. A rope, you see, has peculiar properties of its own, among which are the fibers of which it is constructed. Had Hernandez hanged himself, he undoubtedly would have first tied one end of the rope on the barred window, then tied the other end around his neck, and then leaned into the rope, cutting off his oxygen supply.

The fibers on the rope, however, were flattened in such a way as to indicate that the body had been pulled upwards. In short, the rope had first been affixed to Hernandez' neck, and then the loose end had been threaded through the bars and pulled upon until the body assumed its leaning position. The contact of the rope's fibers with the steel of the bar had given the fibers a telltale direction. Hernandez may have administered his own fatal dose of heroin, but he had certainly not strung himself to the barred window.

The fingerprints found on the syringe seemed to discount the possibility of suicide completely, and this hardly surprised Carella either. None of the fingerprints—and there were a good many, all from the same person, all clear sharp prints—matched up with the fingerprints of Aníbal Hernandez. If he had used the syringe at all, then he had wiped it clean before handing it to a second unknown party.

The unknown party bit was the part that surprised Carella. The Identification Bureau had done a run-through on the prints, and come up with a blank. Whoever had handled the syringe, whoever had allegedly pumped that heroin into Hernandez, did not have a criminal record. Of course, the F.B.I, had not yet had been heard from, but Carella was nonetheless disappointed. In his secret heart, he was halfway hoping that someone who had access to a syringe and the staggering amount of heroin it had taken to kill Hernandez would also be someone with a record.

He was mulling over his disappointment when Lieutenant Byrnes poked his head out of the office.

"Steve," he called. "See you a moment?"

"Yes, sir," Carella said. He rose and walked to Byrnes' door. The lieutenant was silent until Carella closed the door.

"Bad break, huh?" he asked then.

"Sir?"

"Couldn't get a make on those fingerprints."

"Oh, no. I was kind of hoping we would."

"I was, too," Byrnes said.

The two men stared at each other thoughtfully.

"Is there a copy around?"

"Of the prints?"

"Yes."

"May I have it?"

"Well, it's already been checked. I mean, we couldn't…"

"I know, Steve. It's just that I have an idea I want to… to work on."

"About the Hernandez case?"

"More or less."

"Feel like airing it?"

"No, Steve." He paused. "Not yet."

"Sure," Carella said. "Whenever you feel like."

"Get me those prints before you check out, will you, Steve?" Byrnes asked, smiling weakly.

"Sure," Carella said. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, go ahead. You're probably anxious to get home." He paused. "How's the wife?"

"Oh, fine," Carella said.

"Good, good. It's important to have…" Byrnes shook his head and let the sentence trail. "Well, go ahead, Steve, don't let me keep you."

He was bushed when he got home that night. Teddy greeted him at the door, and he kissed her in a perfunctory, most un-newlywedlike way. She looked at him curiously, led him to a drink waiting in the living room and then, attuned to his uncommunicative mood, went out to the kitchen to finish dinner. When she served the meal, Carella remained silent.

And because Teddy had been born with neither the capacity for speech nor the capacity for hearing, the silence in the small kitchen was complete. She looked at him often, wondering if she had offended him in some way, longing to see words on his lips, words she could read and understand. And finally, she reached across the table and touched his hand, and her eyes opened wide in entreaty, brown eyes against an oval face.

"No, it's nothing," Carella said gently.

But still her eyes asked their questions. She cocked her head to one side, the short raven hair sharply detailed against the white wall behind her.

"This case," he admitted.

She nodded, waiting, relieved that he was troubled with his work and not with his wife.

"Well, why the hell would anyone leave a perfect set of fingerprints on a goddamn murder weapon, and then leave the weapon where every rookie cop in the world could find it?"

Teddy shrugged sympathetically, and then nodded.

"And why try to simulate a hanging afterwards? Does the killer think he's dealing with a pack of nitwits, for Christ's sake?" He shook his head angrily. Teddy shoved back her chair and then came around the table and plunked herself down in his lap. She took his hand and wrapped it around her waist, and then she snuggled up close to him and kissed his neck.

"Stop that," he told her, and then—realizing she could not see his lips because her face was buried in his throat—he caught her hair and gently yanked back her head, and repeated, "Stop it. How can I think about the case with you doing that?"

Teddy gave an emphatic nod of her head, telling her husband that he had exactly understood her motivations.

"You're a flesh pot," Carella said, smiling. "You'll destroy me. Do you think…"

Teddy kissed his mouth.

Carella moved back gently. "Do you think you'd leave—"

She kissed him again, and this time he lingered a while before moving away.

"… syringe with fingerprints all over it on a mmmmmmmm…"

Her face was very close to his, and he could see the brightness in her eyes, and the fullness of her mouth when she drew back.

"Oh God, woman," he said.

She rose and took his hand and as she was leading him from the room he turned her around and said, "The dishes. We have to…" and she tossed up her back skirts in reply, the way can-can dancers do. In the living room, she handed him a sheet of paper, neatly folded in half.

"I didn't know you wanted to answer the mail," Carella said. "I somehow suspected I was being seduced."

Impatiently, Teddy gestured to the paper in his hand. Carella unfolded it. The white sheet was covered with four typewritten stanzas. The stanzas were titled: ODE FOR STEVE.

"For me?" he asked.

Yes, she nodded.

"Is this what you do all day, instead of slaving around the house?"

She wiggled her forefinger, urging him to read the poem.

ODE FOR STEVE

I love you, Steve,

I love you so.

I want to go

Where e'er you go.

In counterpoint,

And conversely,

When you return

'Twill be with me.

So darling boy,

My message now

Will follow with

A courtly bow:

You go, I go;

Return, return I;

Stay, go, come—

Together.

"The last stanza doesn't rhyme," Carella said.

Teddy pulled a mock mask of stunned disgust.

"Also, methinks I read sexual connotations into this thing," Carella added.

Teddy waved one hand airily, shrugged innocently, and then—like a burlesque queen imitating a high-priced fashion model—walked gracefully and suggestively into the bedroom, her buttocks wiggling exaggeratedly.

Carella grinned and folded the sheet of paper. He put it into his wallet, walked to the bedroom door, and leaned against the jamb.

"You know," he said, "you don't have to write poems."

Teddy stared at him across the length of the room. He watched her, and he wondered briefly why Byrnes wanted a copy of the fingerprints, and then he said huskily, "All you have to do is ask."

All Byrnes wanted to do was ask.

The lie, as he saw it, was a two-part lie, and once he asked about it, it would be cleared up. Which was why he sat in a parked automobile, waiting. In order to ask, you have to find the askee. You find that person, you corner that person, and you say, "Now listen to me, is it true you…?"

Or was that the way?

What was the way, damnit, what was the way, and how had a man who'd lived honestly all his life suddenly become enmeshed in something like this? No! No, damnit, it was a lie. A stupid lie because there was a body someone was trying to… but suppose it were not a lie?

Suppose the first part of the lie was true, just the first part alone, what then? Then, then, then something would have to be done. What? What do I say if the first part of the lie is true? How do I handle it? This first part of the lie, this first thing was enough. It was enough to cause a man to doubt his sanity, if it was true, if this first thing was true, no, no, it cannot be true!

But maybe it is. Face that possibility. Face the possibility that at least the first thing may be true, and plan on handling it from there.

And if this other thing was true, and if it broke, what untold harm would be done then? Not only, to Byrnes himself, but to Harriet, God, why should Harriet have to suffer, Harriet so innocent, and the police department, how would it look for the police department, oh Jesus let it not be true, let it be a lousy punk lie.

He sat in the parked car and he waited, certain he would recognize him when he came out of the building. The building was in Calm's Point, where Byrnes lived, and it was surrounded by lawn, and there were trees placed all around it, trees bare now with winter, their roots clutching frozen earth, the bases of their trunks caked with snow. There were lights burning in the building, and the lights were a warm amber against the cold winter sky, and Byrnes watched the lights and wondered.

He was a compact man, Byrnes, with a head like a rivet. His eyes were blue and tiny, but they didn't miss very much, and they were set in a browned and weathered face that was seamed with wrinkles. His nose was craggy like the rest of his face, and his mouth was firm with a weak upper lip and a splendid lower lip. He had a chin like a cleft boulder, and his head sat low on his shoulders, as if it were hunched in defense. He sat in the car, and he watched his own breath plume whitely from his lips, and he reached over to wipe the fogged windshield with a gloved hand, and then he saw the people coming from the building.

Young people, laughing and joking. A boy stopped to roll a snowball and hurl it at a young girl who shrieked in gleeful terror. The boy chased her into the shadows then, and Byrnes watched, searching for a face and figure he could recognize. There were more people now. Too many to watch without being close. Hastily, Byrnes stepped out of the car. The cold attacked his face instantly. He hunched his shoulders and walked toward the building.

"Hello, Mr. Byrnes," a boy said, and Byrnes nodded and studied the faces of the other boys who were swarming past. And then suddenly, as if a dam hole had been plugged, the tide stopped. He turned and watched the kids as they sauntered away, and then he sucked in a deep breath and started up the steps, passing beneath an arch upon which were chiseled the words CALM'S POINT HIGH SCHOOL.

He had not been inside this building once since his visit during Open School Week back in… how many years had it been? Byrnes shook his head. A man should take more care, he thought. A man should watch these things. But how could anyone have even suspected, and how could anyone have prevented, Harriet, Harriet, she should have watched more carefully, if this thing is true, if it is true.

The auditorium, he supposed. That was where they'd be. If there were any more of them, they would be in the auditorium. The school was very quiet, closed for the night, and he could hear the hollow tattoo of his own shoes against the marbled main floor of the building. He found the auditorium by instinct, and he smiled wryly, reflecting that he wasn't such a bad detective after all. Christ, what would this thing do to the police department?

He opened the door. A woman stood at the far end of the auditorium, near the piano. Byrnes pulled back his shoulders and started down the long aisle. The woman was the only other person in the large, high-ceilinged room. She looked up expectantly as he approached her. She was in her mid-forties, a stoutish woman who wore her hair in a bun at the back of her neck. She had a mild, pleasant face with cowlike brown eyes.

"Yes?" she asked, her head lifted, her eyebrows lifted, her voice lifted. "May I help you?"

"Perhaps so," Byrnes said, mustering up a genial smile. "Is this where you're rehearsing the senior play?"

"Why, yes," the woman said. "I'm Miss Kerry. I'm directing the show."

"How do you do," Byrnes said. "I'm very happy to know you."

He felt suddenly awkward. His mission, he felt, was a basically secretive one, and he did not feel like exchanging pleasant cordialities with a high-school teacher.

"I saw the boys and girls leaving," he said.

"Yes," Miss Kerry replied, smiling.

"I thought since I was in the neighborhood, I'd stop by and give my son a lift home. He's in the show, you know." Byrnes forced another smile. "Talks about it at home all the time."

"Oh, is that right?" Miss Kerry said, pleased.

"Yes. But I didn't see him outside with the other kids. I was wondering if you…" He glanced up at the darkened, empty stage. "… had him in here working with the…" His sentence lost momentum. "… sets or… or something."

"You probably missed him," Miss Kerry said. "The cast and crew all left just a few minutes ago."

"All of them?" Byrnes asked. "Larry, too?"

"Larry?" Miss Kerry frowned momentarily. "Oh, yes, Larry. Of course. Yes, I'm sorry, but he left with the others."

Byrnes felt an enormous sense of relief. If nothing else, the show accounted for his son's evenings. He had not lied on that score. The smile mushroomed onto his face. "Well," he said, "I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"Not at all. It's I who should apologize, not remembering Larry's name instantly. He's the only Larry working on the show, and he's really doing a fine job."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Byrnes said.

"Yes, Mr. Schwartz," Miss Kerry replied, "you should be very proud of your son."

"Well, I am. I'm happy to hear…" Byrnes stopped. He stared at Miss Kerry for a long, terrible moment.

"My son is Larry Byrnes," he said.

Miss Kerry frowned. "Larry Byrnes. Oh, I'm sorry. I mean… your son isn't in the show at all. Did he say he was? That is… well, he didn't even try out for it."

"I see," Byrnes said tightly.

"I do hope I haven't… that is, well, perhaps the boy had reasons of his own for wanting you to believe he was… well… you can't always take these things on face value, Mr. Byrnes. The boy undoubtedly had reasons."

"Yes," Byrnes said sadly. "I'm afraid he had."

He thanked Miss Kerry again, and then left her in the big, empty auditorium.