Ed Mcbain - Fuzz

“I would like to suggest,” the city’s medical examiner said, “that you undergo a complete physical examination as soon as this meeting is concluded.”

“Why?” JMV asked.

“Because the possibility exists, Your Honor, that you’ve already been poisoned.”

“Well,” JMV said, “that sounds a bit farfetched.”

“Your Honor,” the medical examiner said, “an accumulation of small doses of poison administered over a period of time can result in death. Since we’re dealing with a man who has obviously evolved a long-term plan …”

“Yes, of course,” JMV said, “I’ll submit to examination as soon as you wish. Maybe you can clear up my cold at the same time,” he said charmingly, and grinned charmingly.

“Your Honor,” the president of the city council said, “I suggest we have each of the city’s vehicles inspected thoroughly and at once. I am remembering, sir, the bomb placed in …”

“Yes, we’ll have that done at once,” the district attorney said hastily.

“Your Honor,” the mayor’s press secretary said, “I’d like to suggest that we suppress all news announcements concerning your whereabouts, your speaking engagements, and so on, until this thing blows over.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” JMV said, “but of course I won’t be venturing too far from home in any case, will I, Stan?” he said, and grinned charmingly at the district attorney.

“No, sir, I’d advise your becoming a homebody for the next month or so,” the district attorney said.

“Of course, there may be a bomb in this office right this minute,” the police commissioner said tactlessly, causing everyone to fall suddenly silent. Into the silence, came the loud ticking of the wall clock, which was a little unnerving.

“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “perhaps we ought to have the premises searched, as well as my home. If we’re to do this right, we’ll have to take every precaution.”

“Yes, sir,” the district attorney said.

“And, of course, we’ll have to do everything in our power meanwhile to locate this man, this deaf man.”

“Yes, sir, we’re doing everything in our power right now,” the police commissioner said.

“Which is what?” JMV asked, charmingly.

“He’s got to make a mistake,” the police commissioner said.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He’s got to.”

“But in the meantime,” JMV asked, “do you have any leads?”

“Police work,” the commissioner said, “is a combination of many seemingly unconnected facets that suddenly jell,” and frowned, suspecting that his metaphor hadn’t quite come off. “There are a great many accidents involved in police work, and we consider these accidents a definite contributing factor in the apprehension of criminals. We will, for example, arrest a man on a burglary charge, oh, six or seven months from now, and discover in questioning him that he committed a homicide during the commission of another crime, oh, four or five months ago.

“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “I hope we’re not going to have to wait six or seven months for our man to make a mistake while committing another crime.”

“I didn’t mean to sound so pessimistic,” the commissioner said. “I was merely trying to explain, Your Honor, that a lot of police work dovetails past and present and future. I have every confidence that we’ll apprehend this man within a reasonable length of time.”

“Hopefully before he kills me,” JMV said, and grinned charmingly. “Well,” he said, “if there’s nothing further to discuss, perhaps we can set all these precautionary measures into motion. I’ll be happy to see your doctor, Herb, whenever you want to send him in.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll get in touch with the Bomb Squad,” the police commissioner said, rising.

“Yes, that’s probably the first thing to do,” JMV said, rising. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time and your valuable suggestions. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

“You’ll have men here in the next two or three minutes,” the district attorney promised.

“Thank you, Stan,” the mayor said, “I certainly appreciate your concern.”

The men filed out of the mayor’s office, each of them assuring him once again that he would be amply protected. The mayor thanked each of them charmingly and individually, and then sat in the big padded leather chair behind his desk and stared at the ticking wall clock.

Outside, it was beginning to snow.

The snow was very light at first.

It drifted from the sky lazily and uncertainly, dusting the streets and the sidewalks with a thin fluffy powder. By eight P.M. that night, when Patrolman Richard Genero was discharged from Buena Vista Hospital, the snow was beginning to fall a bit more heavily, but it presented no major traffic problems as yet, especially if–like Genero’s father — one had snow tires on his automobile. Their ride home was noisy but uneventful. Genero’s mother kept urging her son to talk to the captain, and Genero’s father kept telling her to shut up. Genero himself felt healthy and strong and was anxious to get back to work, even though he’d learned he would start his tour of duty on the four-to-midnight tomorrow. He had also learned, however, that Captain Frick, in consideration for his recent wound, was not asking him to walk a beat for the next week or so. Instead, he would be riding shotgun in one of the RMP cars. Genero considered this a promotion.

Of sorts.

The snow continued to fall.

Friday.

The city was a regular tundra, you never saw so much snow in your life unless you happened to have been born and raised in Alaska, and then probably not. There was snow on everything. There was snow on roofs and walls and sidewalks and streets and garbage cans and automobiles and flowerpots, and even on people. Boy, what a snowfall. It was worse than the Blizzard of ‘88, people who didn’t remember the Blizzard of ‘88 were saying. His Honor the Mayor JMV, as if he didn’t have enough headaches, had to arrange with the Sanitation Department for the hiring of 1200 additional temporary employees to shovel and load and dump the snow into the River Dix, a job estimated to cost five hundred and eight thousand four hundred dollars and to consume the better part of a full week – if it didn’t snow again.

The men began working as soon as the snow stopped. It did not stop until three-thirty P.M., fifteen minutes before Genero began riding the RMP car, an hour and a half before Willis and Carella took their posts in the rear of the tailor shop. The city had figured on working their snow people in three continuous shifts, but they hadn’t figured on the numbing cold that followed the storm and lowered the rate of efficiency, a biting frigid wave that had come down from Canada or someplace. Actually, nobody cared where it had come from, they merely wished it would continue going, preferably out to sea, or down to Bermuda, or even all the way to Florida; do it to Julia , everyone was thinking.

There was no doing it to Julia that day.

The cold gripped the city and froze it solid. Emergency snow regulations had gone into effect at noon, and by four P.M. the city seemed deserted. Most large business offices were closed, with traffic stalled to a standstill and buses running only infrequently. Alternate-side-of-the-street parking had been suspended, but stranded automobiles blocked intersections, humped with snow like igloos on an arctic plain. The temporary snowmen fought the cold and the drifted snow, huddled around coal fires built in empty gasoline drums, and then manned their shovels again while waiting dump trucks idled, exhaust pipes throwing giant white plumes into the bitter dusk. The lamppost lights came on at five P.M., casting isolated amber circles on the dead white landscape. A fierce relentless wind howled across avenue and street as the leaden sky turned dark and darker and black.