Calypso (2 page)

    "Those're his brains you're looking at," Monoghan said.

    "Don't I know brains when I see them?"

    "What's the other guy's condition?"

    He addressed this question to Carella, who was staring silently at the corpse. There was a pained expression on Carella's face. His eyes-faintly Oriental, slanting downward-seemed to exaggerate the look of grief, presenting a false image of someone who might suddenly burst into tears. A tall, athletically slender white man, he stood in the rain with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the corpse. Near the doorway behind him, the man from the Photo Unit snapped his Polaroids, his strobe flash blinking like a distant star. In the hallway, one of the lab technicians was searching for spent cartridge cases.

    "Carella? You hear me?" Monoghan said.

    "Meat wagon took him away before we got here," Carella said. "Patrolman in Charlie car said he was bleeding front and back."

    "But still alive, huh?"

    "Still alive," Carella said, and looked again at the dead man.

    "Hey, Petie, you finished with the stiff here?" Monoghan called to the photographer.

    "Yeah, I got all I need," the photographer answered.

    "Did you toss him yet?" Monoghan asked Carella, gesturing toward the dead man.

    "I was about to when you got here."

    "Don't get his brains all over you," Monroe said.

    Carella knelt beside the corpse. In the righthand pocket at the rear of his trousers-the sucker pocket, the one any pickpocket could slash undetected-Carella found a brown leather wallet with a driver's license that identified the dead man as George C. Chadderton. His address was given as 1137 Raucher Street, uptown in Diamondback. The license gave his height as six feet four inches, his sex as M for Male, and a date of birth that would have made him thirty years old on the tenth of November-if he'd lived that long. The license also indicated that it was valid only if the bearer wore corrective lenses while driving. George C. Chadderton, lying on the pavement dead, was not wearing eyeglasses, unless they were contacts.

    Behind the license was a lucite-sealed card stating that he was a member in good standing of the local chapter of the American Federation of Musicians-corroboration of the identification, not that any was needed. There was no registration for a motor vehicle in the wallet, but this meant nothing; most motorists kept their registration in the glove compartments of their cars. In the section for cash, Carella found three hundred-dollar bills, a five, and two singles. The hundred-dollar bills bothered him. They did not seem like the denominations a man would be carrying in this neighborhood- unless he were a pusher or a pimp. Or had Chadderton been heading home after a gig? Still, three hundred dollars seemed like more than any guitar player could reasonably earn in a single night. Was this his pay for a week's work? He rolled the man over on his hip, and reached into the left rear pocket. Only a soiled handkerchief was in it.

    "Don't get snot on your hands," Monroe said cheerfully.

    The rain drilled the sidewalk. Carella, hatless and wearing a tan trenchcoat, was flanked by the two Homicide men, who stood like bulky bookends on either side of him, both of them dressed in black raincoats, both wearing black fedoras. Their hands were in their pockets. They watched Carella with something less than interest but more than curiosity. In this city, a homicide was investigated by the precinct detective catching the squeal. Homicide detectives responded as a matter of course, and the later paperwork would be routinely delivered to them. But they were spectators, in effect. Or perhaps referees. Carella, hunched and squatting in the rain, emptied the dead man's righthand side pocket. Chadderton was carrying six keys on a ring, none of them car keys, sixty-seven cents in change, and a subway token. The subway kiosk for the Culver Avenue line was only two blocks away. Had he been slain on his way to the subway? Or had he and the other man been walking toward a car parked somewhere in the neighborhood?

    "What's his name?" Monoghan asked.

    "George Chadderton."

    "Nice," Monroe said, almost to himself.

    "Is the M.E. on his way?" Monoghan asked.

    "He should be," Carella said. "We notified him."

    "Who said you didn't?" Monoghan said.

    "What's the matter with you tonight, anyway?" Monroe asked. "You seem depressed."

    Carella did not answer him. He was busy bagging and marking the things he'd taken from the dead man's pockets.

    "Rain got you depressed, Carella?" Monoghan asked.

    Carella still said nothing.

    Monroe nodded. "Rain can depress a man," he said.

    "So how come we don't get umbrellas?" Monoghan asked suddenly. "Did you notice that?"

    "Huh?" Monroe said.

    "You ever see a cop with an umbrella? I never seen a cop with an umbrella in my entire life."

    "Me neither," Monroe said. "So how come?" Monoghan asked.

    "Don't let the rain depress you," Monroe said to Carella.

    "Look what it done to Chadderton here," Monoghan said.

    "Huh?" Monroe said.

    "Walkin around with the top of his head open like that, rain
killed
the man," Monoghan said, and began laughing.

    Monroe laughed with him. Carella walked to where the lab technician was still working in the hallway. He handed him the dead man's belongings.

    "His pockets," he said. "Find anything?"

    "Nothing yet. How many shots were fired, do you know?"

    "Meyer's talking to one of the witnesses now. You want to listen?"

    "What for?" the technician said.

    "Find out how many shots were fired."

    "It's raining out there," the technician said. "I can find out how many shots were fired right in here, if I locate any casings."

    

    

    Meyer and the witness were standing under the open awning of a bakery shop. The shop's windows were grilled for the night. The man Meyer was talking to was a thin light-skinned Puerto Rican. The neighborhood here was a mixture of Hispanic and black, the Puerto Ricans along Mason Avenue spilling over onto Culver in the past several years, the friction constant. Carella caught only the tail end of the man's sentence. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent.

    "… to may dee call," he said.

    "Do you know who made it then?"

    "Nobody
wanns
to may it," the man said. "We don't wann to geh involve,
comprende?"

    "Yes, but who finally called the police?"

    "Some black guy, I don't know who."

    "Where were you when you heard the shots?" Meyer said.

    He was a tall burly white man with china blue eyes, wearing a Burberry raincoat and a checked Professor Higgins hat that made him look more like an inspector from Scotland Yard than a detective from right here in the Eight-Seven. The hat was a new acquisition. It hid the fact that he was totally bald. The hat was wet now, somewhat shapeless. Above his head, the awning dripped a fringe of rain onto the sidewalk. He waited for the witness's response. The man seemed to be thinking it over.

    "Well?" Meyer said.

    "We were juss hangin aroun dee pool hall," he said, and shrugged. "How many of you?"

    "Fi' or six, I'm not sure."

    "Then what?"

    "We herr dee shots."

    "How many shots?"

    "
Quien sabe?
Plenty."

    "Then what?"

    "We come runnin."

    "See anybody with a gun?"

    "We see a man run away. Tall man, all dress in black."

    "Can you describe him for me?"

    "Tall. Skinny, too. All in black. Black coat, black hat, black shoes."

    "Did you see his face?"

    "No, I dinn see his face."

    "Was he white or black?"

    "I dinn see his face."

    "Did you see his hands?"

    "No, he wass run away."

    "How tall would you say he was?"

    "Fi' nine, fi' ten, someting like dat."

    "How much would you guess he weighed?"

    "He wass skinny. Like a boy, you know."

    "You said a man."

    
"Si,
but skinny like a boy.
Como un adolescente, comprende?"

    "I don't know what that means. What's that in English?"

    
"El parecia tener diecinueve anos."

    "Anybody here speak Spanish?" Meyer yelled.

    A patrolman in a black rubberized rain slicker came to where they were standing. The plastic nameplate pinned under his shield identified him as R. SERRANO. "Help you?" he said.

    "Ask this guy what he just said."

    
"Que le acdbas de decir al detective?"
the patrolman said.

    
"Que el hombre que se iba corriendo parecia un adolescente."

    "What'd he say?" Meyer asked.

    "He said the guy who split looked like a teen-ager."

    "Okay, thanks," Meyer said. "Tell him thanks.
Gracias,"
he said, telling the man himself. "Tell him he can go now. Tell him we're finished with him.
Gracias,"
he said again, and turned to Carella. The patrolman was busily translating to the witness. The witness seemed reluctant to leave. Now that he'd been interrogated by the police, he seemed to consider himself a star. He was clearly disappointed when the patrolman told him he could go. He started an argument with the patrolman. In English, the patrolman told him to get lost, and then went back to stand in the rain where the police barricades had been set up. The cardboard crime scene-do not enter signs tacked to the barricades were beginning to wilt in the steady downpour.

    "You heard it, Steve," Meyer said. "Tall skinny teen-ager."

    "How many tall skinny teen-agers in this city, would you guess?"

    "Jesus, I didn't get that guy's name! Hey!" Meyer yelled. "Hey, you! Wait a minute!"

    The witness, reluctant to leave not a moment before, now heard himself being called with some urgency. He did what anyone in his right mind would have done. He began running. The Puerto Rican cop who'd translated for Meyer began chasing him. He rounded the corner, slipping and almost falling on the wet pavement. The rain was coming down harder now. The lightning and thunder had passed; there was only the steady drilling rain. Monoghan and Monroe came over to stand under the awning.

    "Where's the goddamn M.E.?" Monoghan said.

    "Don't he know it's rainin?" Monroe said.

    "You need us here any longer?" Monoghan said.

    "We still need a cause of death," Carella said.

    "Big mystery,
that's
gonna be," Monoghan said. "Guy's head is all blown away, whattya
think
the M.E.'s gonna say killed him? A flowerpot fallin from a windowsill?"

    "Maybe the rain," Monroe said, remembering, laughing again. "Maybe it rained in on him, like you said."

    "I'd appreciate it if you waited till the M.E. got here," Carella said quietly.

    The patrolman who'd run after the witness came back around the corner, panting. He walked to where the men were standing under the dripping awning. "I lost him," he said.

    Monoghan looked at his nameplate. "Good work, Serrano," he said. "A promotion is in order."

    "What's your captain's name?" Monroe asked. "We'll put in a commendation."

    "Frick," the patrolman said. "Captain Frick." He looked worried.

    "Captain Frick, remember that," Monoghan said.

    "Got it," Monroe said.

    "We want to get over to the hospital," Meyer said, "talk to the other victim. Can you wrap this for us here?"

    "What, in the rain?" Monoghan said.

    "You can stay under the awning," Meyer said.

    "Here's the M.E. now," Carella said, and walked out into the rain toward the curb, where a black car marked with the city's seal was pulling in at an angle to one of the R.M.P. cars.

    "How nearly done are the rest of them?" Monoghan asked.

    "Photo is about to leave," Meyer said. "I don't know how long the techs'll be. They'll want to mark the position of the body…"

    "How about your sketches? Have you made your sketches yet?"

    "No, but…"

    "Then why the hell are you planning to leave the scene?"

    "Because the other guy may die before we get to him," Meyer said patiently.

    "You're a team, ain't you?" Monoghan said.

    "A pair," Monroe said.

    "A couple."

    
"Two
cops, not one."

    "A team," Monoghan said. "So one of you can stay here to wrap while the other one goes to the hospital. That's the way to do it."

    "That's the
only
way to do it," Monroe said.

    "That's the way
we'd
do it."

    "That's the
only
way we'd do it."

    "Send us your paper shit," Monoghan said.

    "In triplicate," Monroe said, and both Homicide detectives walked out into the rain toward where their black Buick sedan was parked.

    Meyer sighed.

    

    

    A dying man's declaration is admissible evidence in court, but Ambrose Harding was far from dying. He was, in fact, a very lucky man. Had the bullet entered his back a little lower and a bit more to the right, it might have smashed his spinal column. Even had it missed his vertebrae and the posterior rib cage, it might have passed through a lung to shatter one of his anterior ribs and exit through the chest wall-in which case, he'd have undergone immediate surgery and would at this moment have been in the Intensive Care Unit with a respirator tube sticking out of his larynx, another tube draining his chest, and yet more tubes intravenously feeding him dextrose, water, and blood. Instead, and because the bullet had entered his back high on the left shoulder, missing the scapula and then only fracturing the left clavicle on exit, he was now on the hospital's orthopedic floor, his left shoulder immobilized in a cast, but otherwise only mildly sedated and feeling pretty good, all things considered.