Ed McBain (4 page)

"I suppose so."

"How much money did you get?"

"You've got the dough. Why don't you count it?"

"We already have. Twelve dollars, is that right?"

"I didn't get a chance to count it. The Law showed."

"When did the Law show?"

"When I was leaving. Ask the cop who pinched me. He knows when."

"Something happened before you left, though."

"Nothing happened. I cleaned out the register and then blew. Period." . "Your knife had blood on it."

"Yeah? I was cleaning chickens last night."

"You stabbed the owner of that store, didn't you?"

"Me? I never stabbed nobody in my whole life."

"Why'd you stab him?"

"I didn't."

"Where'd you stab him?"

"I didn't stab him."

"Did he start yelling?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You stabbed him, Steve. We know you did."

"You're foil of crap."

"Don't get smart, Steve."

"Ain't you had your look yet? What the hell more do you want?"

"We want you to tell us why you stabbed the owner of that store."

"And I told you I didn't stab him."

"He was taken to the hospital last night with six knife wounds in his chest and abdomen. Now how about that, Steve?"

"Save your questioning for the Detective Squad Room. I ain't saying another word."

"You had your money. Why'd you stab him?"

Stevie did not answer.

"Were you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?" Stevie answered defiantly.

"I don't know. Afraid he'd tell who held him up? Afraid he'd start yelling? What were you afraid of, kid?"

"I wasn't afraid of nothing. I told the old crumb to keep his mouth shut. He shoulda listened to me."

"He didn't keep his mouth shut?"

"Ask him."

"I'm asking you!"

"No, he didn't keep his mouth shut. He started yelling. Right after I'd cleaned out the drawer. The damn jerk, for a lousy twelve bucks he starts yelling."

"What'dyou do?"

"I told him to shut up."

"And he didn't."

"No. he didn't. So I hit him, and he still kept yelling. So I gave him the knife."

"Six times?"

"I don't know how many times. I just gave it to him. He shouldn't have yelled. You ask him if I did any harm to him before that. Go ahead, ask him. He'll tell you. I didn't even touch the crumb before he started yelling. Go to the hospital and ask him if I touched him. Go ahead, ask him."

"We can't, Steve."

"Wh..."

"He died this morning."

"He..."

For a moment, Stevie could not think clearly. Died? Is that what he'd said? The room was curiously still now. It had been silently attentive before, but this was something else, something different, and the stillness suddenly chilled him, and he looked down at his shoes.

"I ... I didn't mean him to pass away," he mumbled.

The police stenographer looked up. "To what?"

"To pass away," a uniformed cop repeated, whispering.

"What?" the stenographer asked again.

"He didn't mean him to pass away!" the cop shouted.

The cop's voice echoed in the silent room. The stenographer bent his head and began scribbling in his pad.

"Next case," the Chief of Detectives said.

Stevie walked off the stage, his mind curiously blank, his feet strangely leaden. He followed the cop to the door, and then walked with him to the elevator. They were both silent as the doors closed.

"You picked an important one for your first one," the cop said.

"He shouldn't have died on me," Stevie answered.

"You shouldn't have stabbed him," the cop said.

He tried to remember what Skinner had said to him before the lineup, but the noise of the elevator was loud in his ears, and he couldn't think clearly. He could only remember the word "neighbors" as the elevator dropped to the basement to join them.

In this story—which first appeared in
Manhunt
in 1953, under the Evan Hunter byline—there's a detective named Marelli and another one named Willis and yet another one named Ed. Is it just coincidence that I chose the pseudonym
Ed
McBain for the series of cop novels I would begin writing a few years later? Is it further coincidence that two of the continuing characters in the 87th Precinct novels are named Carella and Willis? I don't know. Maybe "Kid Kill" should properly belong in the Cops and Robbers section of this book. But when I wrote it back in 1953, I didn't think of it as the first cop story I'd ever written in my life. I just thought of it as a story about a kid.

I
T WAS JUST A ROUTINE CALL
. I R
EMEMBER
I
WAS SITTING
around with Ed, talking about a movie we'd both seen, when Marelli walked in, a sheet of paper in his hand.

"You want to take this, Art?"

I looked up, pulled a face, and said, "Who stabbed who now?"

"This is an easy one," Marelli said. He smoothed his mustache in an unconscious gesture, and added, "Accidental shooting."

"Then why bother Homicide?"

"Accidental shooting resulting in death."

I got up, hitched up my trousers, and sighed. "They always pick the coldest goddamn days of the year to play with war souvenirs." I looked at the frost edging the windows and then turned back to Marelli. "It
was
a war souvenir, wasn't it?"

"Luger," Marelli said. "Nine millimeter. The man on the beat checked it."

"Was it registered?"

"You tell me."

"Stupid characters," I said. "You'd think the law wasn't there for their own protection." I sighed again and looked over to where Ed was trying to make himself look small. "Come on, Ed, time to work."

Ed shuffled to his feet. He was a big man with bright red hair, and a nose broken by an escaped con back in '45. It happened that the con was a little runt, about five feet high in his Adler elevators, and Ed had taken a lot of ribbing about that broken nose—even though we all knew the con had used a lead pipe.

"Trouble with you, Marelli," he said in his deep voice, "you take your job too seriously."

Marelli looked shocked. "Is it my fault some kid accidentally plugs his brother?"

"What?" I said. I had taken my overcoat from the peg and was shrugging into it now. "What was that, Marelli?"

"It was a kid," Marelli said. "Ten years old. He was showing his younger brother the Luger when it went off. Hell, you know these things."

I pulled my muffler tight around my neck, and then buttoned my coat. "This is just a waste of time," I said. "Why do the police always have to horn in on personal tragedies?"

Marelli paused near the desk, dropping the paper with the information on it. "Every killing is a personal tragedy for someone," he said. I stared at him as he walked to the door, waved, and went out.

"Pearls from a flatfootEd said. "Come on, let's get this over with."

It was bitter cold, the kind of cold that attacks your ears and your hands, and makes you want to huddle around a potbelly stove. Ed pulled the Mercury up behind the white-topped squad car, and we climbed out, losing the warmth of the car heater. The beat man was standing near a white picket fence that ran around the small house. His uniform collar was pulled high onto the back of his neck and his eyes and nose were running. He looked as cold as I felt.

Ed and I walked over to him and he saluted and then began slapping his gloved hands together.

"I been waitin' for you, sir," he said. "My name's Connerly. I put in the call."

"Detective Sergeant Willis," I said. "This is my partner, Ed Daley."

"Hiya," Ed said.

"Hell of a thing, ain't it, sir?"

"Sounds routine to me," Ed said. "Kid showing off a war trophy, bang! His little brother is dead. Happens every damned day of the week."

"Sure, sir, but I mean..."

"Family inside?" I asked.

"Just the mother, sir. That's what makes it more of a tragedy, you see."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Well, sir, she's a widow. Three sons. The oldest one was killed in the last war. He's the one sent the Luger home. Now this. Well, sir, you know what I mean."

"Let's get inside," I said.

Connerly led us to the front door, and rapped on it with a gloved hand. Ed stole a glance at me, and I knew he didn't relish this particular picnic any more than I did.

The door opened quickly, and a small woman with dark blue eyes looked out at us. She might have been pretty once, but that was a long time ago, and all the beauty had fled from her, leaving her tired and defeated.

"Mrs. Owens, this is Detective Sergeant Willis and his partner," Connerly said.

Mrs. Owens nodded faintly.

"May we come in, ma'am?" I asked.

She seemed to remember her manners all at once. "Yes, please," she said. "Please do." Her voice was stronger than her body looked, and I wondered if she was really as old as she seemed. A widow, one son killed in the war. Death can sometimes do that to a person. Leave them more withered than the corpse.

"We're sorry to bother you, ma'am," I said, feeling foolish as hell, the way I always did in a situation like this. "The law requires us to make a routine check, however, and..."

"That's quite all right, Mr. Willis." She moved quickly to the couch and straightened the doilies. "Sit down, won't you?"

"Thank you, ma'am." I sat down with Ed on my right Connerly stood near the radiator, his hands behind his back.

Ed took out his pad, and cleared his throat. I took that as my cue and said, "Can you tell us exactly what happened, ma'am."

"Well, I ... I don't really know, exactly. You see, I was in the kitchen baking. This is Wednesday, and I usually bake on Wednesdays. The boys..." She hesitated, bit her lip. "The boys like pie, and I try to bake one at least once a week."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I ... I was putting the pie into the oven when I heard this ... this noise from the attic. I knew the boys were up there playing so I didn't think anything of it."

"What are the boys' names, ma'am?"

"Jeffrey. He's my oldest. And ... and..."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ronald."

"Was Ronald the boy who was shot, ma'am?"

She didn't answer. She simply nodded. I got up and walked to the upright piano, where there were four photos in silver frames. One was of an older man, obviously the dead Mr. Owens. A second was of a young man in an Army uniform, crossed infantry rifles on his lapels. The other two were of the younger boys.

Mrs. Owens blew her nose in a small handkerchief and looked up.

"Which one is Jeffrey?" I asked.

"The ... the blond boy."

I looked at the photo. He seemed like a nice kid, with a pleasant smile and his mother's dark eyes.

"Is he in the house?"

"Yes. He's upstairs in his room."

"I'd like to talk to him, ma'am."

"All right."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to see the attic first."

She seemed about to refuse, and then she nodded. "Certainly."

"You needn't come up, Mrs. Owens," Ed said. "The patrolman can show us the way."

"Thank you," she said.

We followed Connerly up the steps, and he whispered, "See what I mean? Jesus, this is a rotten business."

"Well, what're you gonna do?" Ed philosophized.

***

The attic had been fixed as a playroom, with plasterboard walls and ceiling. An electric train layout covered one half of the room. On the other side of the room, young Ronald Owens lay covered with a sheet. I walked over, lifted the sheet, and looked down at the boy. He resembled the older Jeffrey a great deal, except that his hair was brown. He had the same dark eyes, though, staring up at me now, sightless. There was a neat hole between his eyes, and his face was an ugly mixture of blood and powder burns. I lowered the sheet.

"Where's the gun?" I asked Connerly.

"Right here, sir."

He fished into his pocket and produced the Luger, wrapped carefully in his handkerchief. I opened the handkerchief and stared at the German gun.

"Did you break it open, Connerly?"

"Why, no, sir. A patrolman isn't allowed to..."

"If you broke it open, you'll save me the trouble."

Connerly looked abashed. "Yes, sir, I did."

"Any shells in it?"

"No, sir."

"Not even in the firing chamber?"

"No, sir."

"One bullet, then. That's strange."

"What's so strange about it?" Ed wanted to know.

"A Luger's magazine fed, that's all," I said. "Eight slugs in a. clip. Strange to find only one." I shrugged, handing the pistol back to Connerly. "Let's see what else is around here."

We started rummaging around the attic, not really looking for anything in particular. I think I was just postponing the talk I had to have with the young kid who'd shot his own brother.

"Bunch of books," Ed said.

"Mmmmm?"

"Yeah. Few old newspapers."

"Here's something," Connerly said.

"What've you got?"

"Looks like a box of clips, sir."

"Yeah? For the Luger?"

"Looks that way, sir."

I walked over to where Connerly was standing, and took the box from the shelf. He had carefully refrained from touching it. The box was covered with a fine layer of dust. There were two clips in the open box, and they, too, were covered with dust. I lifted one of the clips out, running my eyes over the cartridges. Eight. The second clip had only seven cartridges in it.

"Only seven here," I said.

"Yeah," Connerly said, nodding. "That's where the bullet came from, all right."

"Anything else there, Ed?" I asked, turning to where he was kneeling over another box on the floor.

"Just these loose newspaper clippings. Nothing really ... hey!"

"What've you got?"

"This's strange as hell," Ed said.

"What? What's so strange?"

He got to his feet and walked over to me, holding a clipping in his big hand. "Take a look at this, Art."

The clipping had been scissored from one of the tabloids. It was simply the story of a boy and a girl who'd been playing in their backyard. Playing with a Colt .45 that was a war souvenir. The .45 had gone off, blowing half the girl's head away. There was a picture of the boy in tears, and a story of the fatal accident.