Ed Mcbain - The Heckler

“So, will you talk to the other bulls or not?”

“I’ll talk to them,” Carella said.

“Okay. Jesus, to get something done around here, you got to go around pulling teeth.”

“What was the second thing?”

“Huh?”

“The second thing. You said there were two—”

“Yeah, that’s right, I did.” Miscolo frowned. “I can’t think of the other thing right now. It’ll come to me.”

“That’s it, then?”

“Yeah. You just come up from the street?”

Carella nodded.

“How’s it look out there?”

“Same as always,” Carella said. He sat for just a moment longer and then waved at Miscolo and went out of the office into the corridor. He pushed through the gate in the railing, threw his Panama at the hat rack, missed, and was heading to pick it up when Bert Kling stooped for it.

“Thanks,” Carella said. He began taking off his jacket as he walked to Meyer’s desk.

“What was it?” Meyer asked.

“Looks like a homicide,” Carella answered.

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Who?”

“No identification,” Carella said. “He got shot at close range with a shotgun, that’s my guess. All he was wearing was shoes and socks.” Carella shrugged. “I better make out a report. I didn’t see anybody from Homicide there, Meyer. Suppose they’ve given up on us?”

“Who knows? They only like to make noise, anyway. They know the stiff officially belongs to whichever precinct is lucky enough to find it.”

“Well, this one belongs to us,” Carella said, wheeling over a typing cart.

“They doing an autopsy?” Meyer asked.

“Yeah.”

“When do you suppose we’ll have the report?”

“I don’t know. What’s today?”

Meyer shrugged. “Bert! What’s today?”

“April first,” Kling said. “Steve, some dame phoned about—”

“Yeah, but what day ?” Meyer asked.

“Wednesday,” Kling said. “Steve, this dame called about an hour ago, something about a dry-cleaning store and a counterfeit bill. You know anything about it?”

“Yeah, I’ll call her back later,” Carella said.

“So when do you think we’ll have the report?” Meyer asked again.

“Tomorrow, I suppose. Unless the M.E.’s office got an unusually large number of stiffs today.”

Andy Parker, who was sitting by the water cooler with his feet up on the desk, threw down a movie magazine and said, “You know who I’d like to get in the hay?”

“Anybody,” Carella answered, and he began typing up his report.

“Wise guy,” Parker said. “I been looking over these movie stars, and there is only one girl in this whole magazine who’d be worth my time.” He turned to Kling who was reading a paper-backed book. “You know who, Bert?”

“Quiet, I’m trying to read,” Kling said.

“I wish some of you guys would try to work,” Meyer said, “This goddam squadroom is beginning to resemble a country club.”

“I am working,” Kling said.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“These are stories about the deductive method.”

“The what?”

“Of detection. Haven’t you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Everybody’s heard of Sherlock Holmes,” Parker said. “You want to know which of these broads—”

“I’m reading a very good story,” Kling said. “You ever read it, Meyer?”

“What’s it called?”

“‘The Red-headed League,’” Kling said.

“No,” Meyer answered. “I don’t read mysteries. They only make me feel stupid.”

THE AUTOPSY REPORTdid not arrive at the squadroom until Friday afternoon, April 3. And, as if by black magic, a call from the assistant medical examiner came at the exact moment the Manila envelope bearing the report was placed on Carella’s desk.

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Carella,” he said.

“Steve, Paul Blaney.”

“Hello, Paul,” Carella said.

“Did that necropsy report get there yet?”

“I’m not sure. A man with hospital pallor just dumped an envelope on my desk. It may be it. Want to hang on a second?”

“Sure,” Blaney said.

Carella opened the envelope and pulled out the report. “Yeah, this is it,” he said into the phone.

“Good. I’m calling to apologize. We just had a full house, Steve, and first things came first. Yours was the shotgun murder, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I hate shotgun wounds,” Blaney said. “Shotgun wounds really look like gun wounds, have you ever noticed that? Especially when they’re fired at close range.”

“Well, a forty-five doesn’t leave a very pretty hole, either,” Carella said.

“Or a thirty-eight, for that matter. But there’s something more lethal about a shotgun, I don’t know. Did you see the size of the hole in your customer?”

“I did,” Carella said.

“It’s worse in contact wounds, of course. Jesus, I’ve seen cases where guys have stuck the barrel of a shotgun into their mouths and then pulled the trigger. Man, that is not nice to look at. Believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“All the goddam explosive force of the gases, you know. In contact wounds.” Blaney paused, and for a moment Carella could visualize the man’s violet eyes, eyes which seemed somehow suited to the dispassionate dismemberment of corpses, neuter eyes that performed tasks requiring neuter emotions. “Well, this wasn’t a contact wound, but whoever did the shooting was standing pretty close. You know how a shotgun cartridge works, don’t you? I mean, about the wad of coarse felt that holds the powder charge at the base of the cartridge?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the goddam cartridge wad was driven into the track together with the pellets.”

“What track? What do you mean, track?”

“Of the cartridge,” Blaney said. “The track. The path of the pellets. Into the guy’s chest. Into his body. The track.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Blaney said, “and the goddam felt wad had followed the pellets into the guy’s chest. So you can imagine the force of the blast, and how close the killer was standing.”

“Any idea what gauge shotgun was used?”

“You’ll have to get that from the lab,” Blaney said. “I sent over everything I dug out of the guy, and I also sent over the shoes and socks. I’m sorry about being so late on the report, Steve. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“Okay, thanks, Paul.”

“Looks like another nice day, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Steve, I won’t keep you. So long.”

“So long,” Carella said. He put the phone back into its cradle, and then picked up the report from the Medical Examiner’s office. It did not make very pleasant reading.

THREE OF THE MENin the poker game were getting slightly p.o.’d. It wasn’t so much that they minded losing—the hell they didn’t mind!—it was simply that losing to the fourth man, the man with the hearing aid, was somehow degrading. Perhaps it was the cheerlessness with which he played. Or perhaps it was the air of inevitability he wore on his handsome features, a look which told them he would ultimately triumph, no matter what skill they brought to the game, no matter how often fortune smiled upon them.

Chuck, the burliest of the four men, looked at his cards sourly and then glanced across the table to where the deaf man sat. The deaf man was wearing gray flannel slacks and a navy-blue blazer over a white dress shirt open at the throat. He looked as if he had just got off a yacht someplace. He looked as if he were waiting for a butler to serve him a goddam Martini. He also looked like a man who was sitting with four cards to a high straight.