Ed Mcbain: Cop Hater

Anybody.

Chapter NINETEEN

"Now here's what I call a real handsome one," Hal Willis said. Hal Willis was the only really small detective Carella had ever known. He passed the minimum height requirement of five/eight, of course, but just barely. And contrasted against the imposing bulk of the other bulls in the division, he looked more like a soft shoe dancer than a tough cop. That he was a tough cop, there was no doubt. His bones were slight, and his face was thin, and he looked as if he would have trouble swatting a fly, but anyone who'd ever tangled with Hal Willis did not want the dubious pleasure again. Hal Willis was a Judo expert.

Hal Willis could shake your hand and break your backbone in one and the same motion. Were you not careful with Hal Willis, you might find yourself enwrapped in the excruciating pain of a Thumb Grip. Were you even less careful, you might discover yourself hurtling through space in the fury of either a Rugby or a Far-Eastern Capsize. Ankle Throws, Flying Mares, Back Wheels, all were as much a part of Hal Willis' personality as the sparkling brown eyes in his face.

Those eyes were amusedly turned now toward the F.B.I, photo which he shoved across the desk toward Carella.

The photo was of a man who was indeed a "real handsome one." His nose had been fractured in at least four places. A scar ran the length of his left cheek. Scar tissue hooded his eyes. He owned cauliflower ears and hardly any teeth. His name, of course, was "Pretty-Boy Krajak."

"A doll," Carella said. "Why'd they send him to us?"

"Dark hair, six feet two, weighing one-eighty-five. How'd you like to run across him some dark and lonely night?"

"I wouldn't. Is he in the city?"

"He's in L.A.," Willis said.

"Then we'll leave him to Joe Friday," Carella cracked.

"Have another Chesterfield," Willis countered. "The only living cigarette with 60,000 filter dragnets."

Carella laughed. The phone rang. Willis picked it up.

"87th Squad," he said. "Detective Willis."

Carella looked up.

"What?" Willis said. "Give me the address." He scribbled something hastily on his pad. "Hold him there, we'll be right over." He hung up, opened the desk drawer and removed his holster and service revolver.

"What is it?" Carella asked.

"Doctor on 35th North. Has a man in his office with a bullet wound in his left shoulder."

A squad car was parked in front of the brownstone on 35th North when Carella and Willis arrived.

"The rookies beat us here," Willis said.

"So long as they've got him," Carella answered, and he made it sound like a prayer. A sign on the door read, "DOCTOR IS IN. RING BELL AND PLEASE BE SEATED."

"Where?" Willis asked. "On the doorstep?"

They rang the bell, opened the door, and entered the office. The office was situated off the small courtyard on the street level of the brownstone. A patrolman was seated on the long leather couch, reading a copy of Esquire. He closed the magazine when the detectives entered and said, "Patrolman Curtis, sir."

"Where's the doctor?" Carella asked.

"Inside, sir. Country is asking him some questions."

"Who's Country?"

"My partner, sir."

"Come on," Willis said. He and Carella went into the doctor's office. Country, a tall gangling boy with a shock of black hair snapped to attention when they entered.

"Goodbye, Country," Willis said drily. The patrolman eased himself toward the door and left the office.

"Dr. Russell?" Willis asked.

"Yes," Dr. Russell replied. He was a man of about fifty, with a head of hair that was silvery white, giving the lie to his age. He stood as straight as a telephone pole, broad-shouldered, immaculate in his white office tunic. He was a handsome man, and he gave an impression of great competence. For all Carella knew, he may have been a butcher, but he'd have trusted this man to cut out his heart.

"Where is he?"

"Gone," Dr. Russell said.

"How..."

"I called as soon as I saw the wound. I excused myself, went out to my private office and placed the call. When I came back, he was gone."

"Shit," Willis said. "Want to tell us from the beginning, doctor?"

"Certainly. He came in ... oh, not more than twenty minutes ago. The office was empty, unusual for this time of day, but I rather imagine people with minor ailments are curing them at the seashore." He smiled briefly. "He said he'd shot himself while cleaning his hunting rifle. I took him into the Examination Room—that's this room, gentlemen— and asked him to take off his shirt. He did."

"What happened then?"

"I examined the wound. I asked him when he had had the accident. He said it had occurred only this morning. I knew instantly that he was lying. The wound I was examining was not a fresh one. It was already highly infected. That was when I remembered the newspaper stories."

"About the cop killer?"

"Yes. I recalled having read something about the man having a pistol wound above the waist. That was when I excused myself to call you."

"Was this definitely a gunshot wound?"

"Without a doubt. It had been dressed, but very badly. I didn't examine it very closely, you understand, because I rushed off to make the call. But it seemed to me that iodine had been used as a disinfectant."

"Iodine?"

"Yes."

"But it was infected nonetheless?"

"Oh, definitely. That man is going to have to find another doctor, sooner or later."

"What did he look like?"

"Well, where should I begin?"

"How old?"

"Thirty-five or thereabouts."

"Height?"

"A little over six feet, I should say."

"Weight?"

"About one-ninety."

"Black hair?" Willis asked.

"Yes."

"Color of eyes?"

"Brown."

"Any scars, birthmarks, other identifying characteristics?"

"His face was very badly scratched."

"Did he touch anything in the office?"

"No. Wait, yes."

"What?"

"I had him sit up on the table here. When I began probing the wound, he winced and gripped the stirrups here at the foot of the table."

'This may be a break, Hal," Carella said.

"Jesus, it sounds like one. What was he wearing, Dr. Russell?"

"Black."

"Black suit?"

"Yes."

"What color shirt?"

"White. It was stained over the wound."

"Tie?"

"A striped tie. Gold and black."

"Tie clasp?"

"Yes. Some sort of design on it."

"What kind?"

"A bugle? Something like that."

"Trumpet, hunting horn, horn of plenty?"

"I don't know. I couldn't really identify it. It only stuck in my mind because it was an unusual clasp. I noticed it when he was undressing."

"What color shoes?"

"Black."

"Clean-shaven?"

"Yes. That is, you meant was he wearing a beard?"

"Yes."

"Well then, yes, he was clean-shaven. But he needed a shave."

"Uh-huh. Wearing any rings?"

"None that I noticed."

"Undershirt?'

"No undershirt."

"Can't say I blame him in this heat. Mind if I make a call, Doc?"

"Please help yourself. Do you think he's the man?"

"I hope so," Willis said. "God, I hope so."

When a man is nervous, he perspires—even if the temperature is not hovering somewhere in the nineties.

There are sweat pores on the fingertips, and the stuff they secrete contains 98.5 percent water and 0.5 to 1.5 percent solid material. This solid material breaks down to about one-third of inorganic matter—mainly salt—and two thirds of organic substances like urea, albumin and formic, butyric and acetic acids. Dust, dirt, grease cling to the secretion from a man's fingertips.

The perspiration, mixed with whatever happens to be clinging to it at the moment, leaves a filmy impression on whatever the man happens to touch.

The suspected killer happened to touch the smooth chromium surfaces of the stirrups in Dr. Russell's office.