Cop Hater (6 page)

"Truth," Kelly said. "So help me Jesus, may I be struck dead right this goddamn minute."

"What's there to check up on?" Bush asked.

"Well, you know."

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

"I figured she was maybe slippin' around."

"Slipping around with who?" Bush asked.

"Well, that's what I wanted to find out."

"And what were you doing with him, McCarthy?"

"I was helping him check," McCarthy said, smiling.

"Was she?" Bush asked, a bored expression on his face.

"No, I don't think so," Kelly said.

"Don't check again," Bush said. "Next time we're liable to find you with the burglar's tools."

"Burglar's tools!" McCarthy said shocked.

"Gee, Detective Bush," Kelly said, "you know us better than that."

"Get the hell out of here," Bush said. "We can go home?"

"You can go to hell, for my part," Bush informed them.

"Here's the coffee," Foster said.

The released prisoners sauntered out of the Squad Room. The three detectives paid the delivery boy for the coffee and then pulled chairs up to one of the desks.

"I heard a good one last night," Foster said.

"Let's hear it," Carella prompted.

"This guy is a construction worker, you see?"

"Yeah."

"Working up on a girder about sixty floors above the street."

"Yeah?"

"The lunch whistle blows. He knocks off, goes to the end of the girder, sits down, and puts his lunch box on his lap. He opens the box, takes out a sandwich and very carefully unwraps the waxed paper. Then he bites into it. 'Goddamn!' he says, 'peanut butter!' and he throws the sandwich down the sixty floors to the street."

"I don't get it," Bush said, sipping at his coffee.

"I'm not finished yet," Foster said, grinning, hardly able to contain his glee.

"Go ahead," Carella said.

"He reaches into the box," Foster said, "for the next sandwich. He very carefully unwraps the waxed paper. He bites into the sandwich. 'Goddamn!' he says again, 'peanut butter!' and he flings that second sandwich down the sixty floors to the street."

"Yeah," Carella said.

"He opens the third sandwich," Foster said. "This time it's ham. This time he likes it. He eats the sandwich all up."

"This is gonna go on all night," Bush said. "You shoulda stood in bed, Dave."

"No, wait a minute, wait a minute," Foster said. "He opens.the fourth sandwich. He bites into it. 'Goddamn!' he says again, 'peanut butter!' and he flings that sandwich too down the sixty floors to the street. Well, there's another construction worker sitting on a girder just a little bit above this fellow. He looks down and says, 'Say, fellow, I've been watching you with them sandwiches.'

"'So what?' the first guy says.

"'You married?' the second guy asks.

"'Yes, I'm married."

"The second guy shakes his head. 'How long you been married?"

"Ten years," the first guy says.

"'And your wife still doesn't know what kind of sandwiches you like?'

'The first guy points his finger up at the guy above him and yells, "Listen, you son of a bitch, leave my wife out of this. I made those goddamn sandwiches myself!'"

Carella burst out laughing, almost choking on his coffee. Bush stared at Foster dead-panned.

"I still don't get it," Bush said. "What's so funny about a guy married ten years whose wife doesn't know what kind of sandwiches he likes? That's not funny. That's a tragedy."

"He made the sandwiches
himself,"
Foster said.

"So then it's a psycho joke. Psycho jokes don't appeal to me. You got to be nuts to appreciate a psycho joke."

"I appreciate it," Carella said.

"So? That proves my point," Bush answered.

"Hank didn't get enough sleep," Carella said to Foster. Foster winked.

"I got plenty of sleep," Bush said.

"Ah-ha," Carella said. "Then that explains it."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Bush said, annoyed.

"Oh, forget it. Drink your coffee."

"A man doesn't get a joke, right away his sex life gets dragged in. Do I ask you how much sleep you get or don't get?"

"No," Carella said.

"Okay. Okay."

One of the patrolmen walked into the Squad Room. "Desk sergeant asked me to give you this," he said. "Just came up from Downtown."

"Probably that Coroner's report," Carella said, taking the manila envelope. "Thanks."

The patrolman nodded and went out. Carella opened the envelope.

"Is it?" Foster asked.

"Yeah. Something else, too." He pulled a card from the envelope. "Oh, report on the slugs they dug out of the theatre booth."

"Let's see it," Hank said.

Carella handed him the card.

BULLET

Calibre:
 
.45
     
Weight:
 
230 grms.
   
Twist:
  
16L
   
No. of Grooves:
 
6

Deceased:
  
Michael Reardon
   
Date:
 
July 24

Remarks:
 
Remington bullet taken from wooden booth behind body of Michael Reardon
.

"Argh, so what does it tell us?" Bush said, still smarting from the earlier badinage.

"Nothing," Carella answered, "until we get the gun that fired it."

"What about the Coroner's report?" Foster asked.

Carella slipped it out of the envelope.

CORONER'S PRELIMINARY AUTOPSY REPORT

MICHAEL REARDON

Male, apparent age 42; chronological age 38. Approximate weight 210 pounds; height 28.9 cm.

Gross Inspection

HEAD: 1.0 x 1.25 cm circular perforation visible 3.1 centimeters laterally to the left of external occipital protuberance (inion). Wound edges slightly inverted. Flame zone and second zone reveal heavy embedding of powder grains. A number 22 catheter inserted through the wound in the occipital region of the skull transverses ventrally and emerges through the right orbit Point of emergence has left a gaping rough-edged wound measuring 3.7 centimeters in diameter.

There is a second perforation located 6.2 centimeters laterally to the left of the tip of the right mastoid process of the temporal bone, measuring 1.0 x 1.33 centimeters. A number 22 catheter inserted through this second wound passes anteriorly and ventrally and emerges through a perforation measuring approximately 3.5 centimeters in diameter through the right maxilla. The edges of the remaining portion of the right maxilla are splintered.

BODY: Gross inspection of remaining portion of body is negative for demonstrable pathology.

REMARKS: On craniotomy with brain examination, there is evidence of petechiae along course of projectile; small splinters of cranial bone are embedded within the brain substance.

MICROSCOPIC: Examination of brain reveals minute petechiae as well as bone substance within brain matter. Microscopic examination of brain tissue is essentially negative for pathology.

"He did a good job, the bastard," Foster said. "Yeah," Bush answered.

Carella sighed and looked at his watch. "It's going to be a long night, fellers," he said.

Chapter SIX

he had not seen
Teddy Franklin since Mike took the slugs.

Generally, in the course of running down something, he would drop in to see her, spending a few minutes with her before rushing off again. And, of course, he spent all his free time with her because he was in love with the girl.

He had met her less than six months ago, when she'd been working addressing envelopes for a small firm on the fringe of the precinct territory. The firm reported a burglary, and Carella had been assigned to it. He had been taken instantly with her buoyant beauty, asked her out, and that had been the beginning. He had also, in the course of investigation, cracked the burglary—but that didn't seem important now. The important thing now was Teddy. Even the firm had gone the way of most small firms, fading into the abyss of a corporate dissolution, leaving her without a job but with enough saved money to maintain herself for a while. He honestly hoped it would only be for a while, a short while at that. This was the girl he wanted to marry. This was the girl he wanted for his own.

Thinking of her, thinking of the progression of slow traffic lights which kept him from racing to her side, he cursed Ballistics Reports and Coroner's Reports, and people who shot cops in the back of the head, and he cursed the devilish instrument known as the telephone and the fact that the instrument was worthless with a girl like Teddy. He glanced at his watch. It was close to midnight, and she didn't know he was coming, but he'd take the chance, anyway. He wanted to see her.

When he reached her apartment building in Riverhead, he parked the car and locked it The street was very quiet. The building was old and sedate, covered with lush ivy. A few windows blinked wide-eyed at the stifling heat of the night, but most of the tenants were asleep or trying to sleep. He glanced up at her window, pleased when he saw the light was still burning. Quickly, he mounted the steps, stopping outside her door.

He did not knock.

Knocking was no good with Teddy.

He took the knob in his hand and twisted it back and forth, back and forth. In a few moments, he heard her footsteps, and then the door opened a crack, and then the door opened wide.

She was wearing prisoner pajamas, white-and-black striped cotton top and pants she'd picked up as a gag. Her hair was raven black, and the light in the foyer put a high sheen onto it. He closed the door behind him, and she went instantly into his arms, and then she moved back from him, and he marveled at the expressiveness of her eyes and her mouth. There was joy in her eyes, pure soaring joy. Her lips parted, edging back over small white teeth, and then she lifted her face to his, and he took her kiss, and he felt the warmth of her body beneath the cotton pajamas.

"Hello," he said, and she kissed the words on his mouth, and then broke away, holding only his hand, pulling him into the warmly-lighted living room.

She held her right index finger alongside her face, calling for his attention.

"Yes?" he said, and then she shook her head, changing her mind, wanting him to sit first. She fluffed a pillow for him, and he sat in the easy chair, and she perched herself on the arm of the chair and cocked her head to one side, repeating the extended index finger gesture.

"Go ahead," he said, "I'm listening."

She watched his lips carefully, and then she smiled. Her index finger dropped. There was a white tag sewed onto the prisoner pajama top close to the mound of her left breast. She ran the extended finger across the tag. He looked at it closely.

"I'm not examining your feminine attributes," he said, smiling, and she shook her head, understanding. She had inked numbers onto the tag, carrying out the prison garb motif. He studied the numbers closely.

"My shield numbers," he said, and the smile flowered on her mouth. "You deserve a kiss for that," he told her.

She shook her head.
                                                         

"No kiss?"
                                                                       

She shook her head again.

"Why not?"

She opened and closed the fingers on her right hand.

"You want to talk?" he asked.

She nodded.

"What about?"

She left the arm of the chair suddenly. He watched her walking across the room, his eyes inadvertently following the swing of her small, rounded backside. She went to an end-table and picked up a newspaper. She carried it back to him and then pointed to the picture of Mike Reardon on page one, his brains spilling out onto the sidewalk.

"Yeah," he said dully.

There was sadness on her face now, an exaggerated sadness because Teddy could not give tongue to words, Teddy could neither hear words, and so her face was her speaking tool, and she spoke in exaggerated syllables, even to Carella, who understood the slightest nuance of expression hi her eyes or on her mouth. But the exaggeration did not lie, for there was genuineness to the grief she felt. She had never met Mike Reardon, but Carella had talked of him often, and she felt that she knew him well.

She raised her eyebrows and spread her hands simultaneously, asking Carella "Who?" and Carella, understanding instantly, said, "We don't know yet. That's why I haven't been around. We've been working on it." He saw puzzlement in her eyes. "Am I going too fast for you?" he asked.