Ed McBain: Long Time No See

“To me,” Monoghan said, “a man gets cut with a knife, that’s a stabbing.”

“To me also,” Monroe said.

“Then what are you—”

“I’m talking about what the autopsy’s going to say. The autopsy’ll say this is an incised wound.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking about what I’ll tell my wife at breakfast tomorrow morning. Can I tell her we found a man who was incised to death?” Monoghan said, and burst out laughing.

Monroe started laughing, too. Vapor plumed from their months onto the brittle air. Their hilarity rang in the small square where the dead man lay on his back near the statue. In the distance, Carella could hear the impatient eee-wah, eee-wah, eee-wah of an ambulance siren. The dead man’s dark glasses had fallen from his head and lay shattered on the pavement beside him. Carella looked into the open scarred sockets where his eyes should have been. He turned away. The black Labrador lay on its side some four feet from the dead man. Meyer was crouched near the dog. Blood from the dead man’s open throat had run across the sidewalk and into the black hair tufted on the dog’s massive chest. The dog was still breathing. Meyer wondered what to do about the dog. He’d never had a case where there was an unconscious dog.

“What do we do about the dog?” he asked Carella.

“I was just wondering the same thing.”

“It’s a seeing-eye dog,” Monoghan said. “Maybe he saw who done it. Maybe you can ask him who done it.”

Monroe burst out laughing again. Monoghan, as originator of the witticism, modestly restrained himself a moment longer, and then joined his partner. Together they bellowed to the night

The dog was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived. There were four R.M.P. cars at the scene now, dome lights rotating. Barricades were going up all around the square. It was a cold night, but people were beginning to gather nonetheless and patrolmen were already urging them to go about their business — “Nothing here to see, folks, let’s keep it moving.” The intern got out of the ambulance, looked around immediately for somebody with a police shield pinned to his coat, and went to where Carella and Meyer were standing with the two Homicide dicks. He looked down at the body.

“All right to move him?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Carella said. “The M.E. hasn’t seen him yet.”

“Then why’d you call us?” the intern asked.

“You can wait a few minutes,” Monoghan said. “It won’t kill you.”

The intern looked at him.

“Yeah,” Monoghan said, and nodded.

“You in charge here?” the intern asked.

“I’m the one ordered the ambulance.”

“You should have waited,” the intern said flatly, and turned on his heel and walked back to where the ambulance was parked at the curb. The attendant had already opened the rear door. The intern told him to close it.

The assistant medical examiner arrived ten minutes later. By that time the intern had threatened to leave four times. Carella mollified him each time. Each time the intern said, “There are people dying in this city.” The M.E. was a man named Michael Horton. He was wearing a suit and tie, dark overcoat, no hat, black leather gloves. He took off the glove on his right hand before he shook hands with Carella. Then he knelt to examine the body. The man from the Photo Unit moved off and began taking pictures of the dog.

“Cute, very cute,” Horton said. “Severed the trachea, carotids and jugular. There’s your cause of death right there. Not another mark on the man. Look at his hands. No defense cuts, nothing. Cute. Must’ve been a big blade. Just one slash, very deep, nobody did this with a penknife, I can tell you. Oh yes, very cute. No hesitation marks, clean-cut edges to the wound, help me roll him over.” Carella knelt. Together they rolled the man over. Horton looked at his back. “Nothing here, clean as a whistle,” he said. He pulled on the collar of the dead man’s coat, studied the back of his neck. “Slash runs almost through to the spine. Okay, on his back again,” he said, and he and Carella rolled the corpse over again. “I want his hands bagged, there may be scrapings under the nails. You won’t need him fingerprinted here at the scene, will you?”

“We don’t know who he is yet,” Carella said.

“I’ll wait around till you go through his pockets,” Horton said. “Pending autopsy, you can say your cause of death is the incised throat wound.”

“What’d I tell you?” Monroe said.

“What?” Horton said.

“Nothing,” Monoghan said, and scowled at Monroe. “What about the dog?” Carella said.

“What dog?”

“Over there. You want to look at the dog, too?”

“I don’t look at dogs,” Horton said.

“I thought—”

“I’m not a veterinarian, I don’t look at dogs.”

“Well, who does?” Carella asked.

“I don’t know,” Horton said. “I have never in my years with the Medical Examiner’s Office had to examine a dead dog.”

“The dog’s still alive,” Carella said.

“Then why do you want me to look at him?”

“To see what’s wrong with him.”

“How would I know what’s wrong with him? I’m not a veterinarian.”

“The dog’s unconscious there,” Carella said. “I thought you’d take a look at him, tell us what—”

“No, that’s not my function,” Horton said. “I’m finished here, give me what I have to sign. I’ll wait while you check for identification.”

“I don’t know if the Photo Unit’s done with him yet,” Carella said.

“Well, find out, will you?” Horton said.

The intern walked over from the ambulance. He was blowing on his hands. “All right to take him now?” he asked.

“Everybody slow down, okay?” Carella said.

“I’ve been waiting here—”

“I don’t give a damn,” Carella said. “This is a homicide, let’s just cool it, okay?”

“There are people dying in this city,” the intern said.

Carella didn’t answer him. He walked over to where the police photographer was snapping pictures of the unconscious dog. “You finished with the dead man?” he asked.

“Only my Polaroids,” the photographer said.

“Well, take whatever else you need,” Carella said. “Everybody’s getting itchy.”

“I haven’t fingerprinted him yet, either.”

“The M.E. wants his hands bagged.”

A lab technician was already chalking an outline of the body onto the pavement. The photographer waited till he was finished, and then began taking the additional pictures he needed. Flash bulbs exploded. The assistant M.E. blinked. At the ambulance, the attendant had opened the rear door again, in expectation. Meyer took Carella aside. They had been about to leave for a stakeout in a warehouse when the squeal came. Both men were wearing mackinaws and woolen watch caps.

“What do we do with the dog?” Meyer asked.

“I don’t know,” Carella said.

“Can’t just leave him here, can we?”

“No.”

“So what do we do?”

“Call a vet, I guess. I don’t know.” Carella paused. “Have you got a dog?”

“No. Have you?”

“Because I was wondering — maybe we ought to get a vet here right away. The dog may have been poisoned or something.”

“Yeah,” Meyer said, and nodded. “Let me call in, see if we can’t get Murchison to send somebody.”

“Maybe there’s somebody downtown... you know the unit that has those dogs who sniff out dope?”

“Yeah?”

“They must have a vet who takes care of those dogs, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Let me call in, see what I can do.”

“Yeah, go ahead. I think Photo’s done with the body, I want to toss him.”