“And you let it drop?”

  “No, we looked the kid up. Harmless. Alibis a mile long.”

  “Who else have you checked?”

  “We’ve got feelers out to all our underworld contacts. We thought this might be a gang thing, where some hood has an alleged grievance against something we’ve done to hamper him, and so he’s trying to show us we’re not so high and mighty. He hires a torpedo and begins methodically putting us in our places. But there’s been no rumble so far, and underworld revenge is not something you can keep very quiet.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ve been wading through FBI photos all morning. Jesus, you’d never realize how many men there are who fit the possible description we have.” He sipped at the scotch. He was beginning to feel a little more comfortable with Alice. Maybe she wasn’t so female, after all. Or maybe her femaleness simply enveloped you after a while, causing you to lose all perspective. Whatever it was, the room wasn’t as oppressive now.

  “Turn up anything? From the photos?”

  “Not yet. Half of them are in jail, and the rest are scattered all over the country. You see, the hell of this thing is…well…”

  “What?”

  “How’d the killer know that these men were cops? They were all in plainclothes. Unless he’d had contact with them before, how could he know?”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “Maybe he sat in a parked car across from the house and watched everyone who went in and out. If he did that for a while, he’d get to know who worked there and who didn’t.”

  “He could have done that,” Alice said thoughtfully. “Yes, he could have.” She crossed her legs unconsciously. Carella looked away.

  “Several things against that theory, though,” Carella said. “That’s what makes this case such a bitch.” The word had sneaked out, and he glanced up apprehensively. Alice Bush seemed not to mind the profanity. She had probably heard enough of it from Hank. Her legs were still crossed. They were very good legs. Her skirt had fallen into a funny position. He looked away again.

  “You see, if somebody had been watching the house, we’d have noticed him. That is, if he’d been watching it long enough to know who worked there and who was visiting…That would take time. We’d surely have spotted him.”

  “Not if he were hidden.”

  “There are no buildings opposite the house. Only the park.”

  “He could have been somewhere in the park…with binoculars, maybe.”

  “Sure. But how could he tell the detectives from the patrolmen, then?”

  “What?”

  “He killed three detectives. Maybe it was chance. I don’t think so. All right, how the hell could he tell the patrolmen from the detectives?”

  “Very simply,” Alice said. “Assuming he was watching, he’d see the men when they arrived, and he’d see them after muster when they went out to their beats. They’d be in uniform then. I’m talking about the patrolmen.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” He took a deep swallow of the drink; Alice moved on the love seat.

  “I’m hot,” she said.

  He did not look at her. He knew that his eyes would have been drawn downward if he did, and he did not want to see what Alice was unconsciously, obliviously showing.

  “I don’t suppose this heat has helped the investigation any,” she said.

  “This heat hasn’t helped anything any.”

  “I’m changing to shorts and a halter as soon as you get out of here.”

  “There’s a hint if ever I heard one,” Carella said.

  “No, I didn’t mean…Oh, hell, Steve, I’d change to them now if I thought you were going to stay longer. I just thought you were leaving soon. I mean…” She made a vague motion with one hand. “Oh, nuts.”

  “I am leaving, Alice. Lots of photos to look through back there.” He rose. “Thanks for the drink.” He started for the door, not looking back when she got up, not wanting to look at her legs again.

  She took his hand at the door. Her grip was firm and warm. Her hand was fleshy. She squeezed his hand.

  “Good luck, Steve. If there’s anything I can do to help…”

  “We’ll let you know. Thanks again.”

  He left the apartment and walked down to the street. It was very hot in the street.

  Curiously, he felt like going to bed with somebody.

  Anybody.

  “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’s personality as the sparkling brown eyes in his face.

  Those eyes were amusedly turned now toward the FBI 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 LA,” Willis said.

  “Then we’ll leave him to Joe Friday,” Carella cracked.

  “Have another Chesterfield,” Willis countered. “The only living cigarette with sixty thousand 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 Thirty‐Fifth 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 Thirty‐Fifth 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.

  “Good‐bye, 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.

  The tech crew dusted the latent fingerprints with one of the commercial black powders. The excess powder was allowed to fall on a sheet of paper. The prints were lightly brushed with an ostrich feather. They were then photographed.

  There were two good thumbprints, one for each hand where the suspect had pressed down on the top surfaces of the stirrups. There were good second‐joint prints for each hand where the suspect had gripped the undersides of the stirrups.

  The prints were sent to the Bureau of Identification. A thorough search was made of the files. The search proved fruitless, and the prints were sent to the Federal Bureau of Investigation while the detectives sat back to wait.

  In the meantime, a police artist went to see Dr. Russell. Listening to Dr. Russell’s description, he began drawing a picture of the suspect. He made changes as Dr. Russell suggested them—“No, the nose is a little too long; yes, that’s better. Try to give a little curl to his lip there. Yes, yes, that’s it…”—and he finally came up with a drawing which tallied with Dr. Russell’s recollection of the man he had examined. The picture was sent to each metropolitan daily and to each television station in the area, together with a verbal description of the wanted man.

  All this while, the detectives waited for the FBI report. They were still waiting the next day.

  Willis looked at the drawing on the first page of one of the morning tabloids.

  The headline screamed, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

  “He’s not bad looking,” Willis said.

  “Pretty‐Boy Krajak,” Carella said.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “He may be handsome, but he’s a son of a bitch,” Carella said. “I hope his arm falls off.”

  “It very well might,” Willis said drily.

  “Where the hell’s that FBI report?” Carella asked edgily. He had been answering calls all morning, calls from citizens who reported having seen the killer. Each call had to be checked out, of course, but thus far, the man had been seen all over the city at simultaneous times. “I thought those G‐men were supposed to be fast.”

  “They are,” Willis said.

  “I’m going to check with the lieutenant.”

  “Go ahead,” Willis said.

  Carella went to the lieutenant’s door. He knocked and Byrnes called, “Come.” Carella went into the office. Byrnes was on the phone. He signaled for Carella to stand by. He nodded then and said, “But, Harriet, I can’t see anything wrong with that.”

  He listened patiently.

  “Yes, but…”

  Carella walked to the window and stared out at the park.

  “No, I can’t see any reason for…”

  Marriage, Carella thought. And then he thought of Teddy. It’ll be different with us.

  “Harriet, let him go,” Byrnes said. “He’s a good boy, and he won’t get into any trouble. Look, take my word for it. For God’s sake, it’s only an amusement park.”

  Byrnes sighed patiently.

  “All right, then.” He listened. “I’m not sure yet, honey. We’re waiting for an FBI report. If I’ll be home, I’ll call you. No, nothing special. It’s too damn hot to eat, anyway. Yes, dear. Bye.”

  He hung up. Carella came from the window.

  “Women,” Byrnes said, not disagreeably. “My son wants to go out to Jollyland tonight with some of the boys. She doesn’t think he should. Can’t see why he wants to go there in the middle of the week. She says she’s read newspaper stories about boys getting into fights with other boys at these places. For Pete’s sake, it’s just an amusement park. The kid is seventeen.”

  Carella nodded.

  “If you’re going to watch them every minute, they’ll feel like prisoners. Okay, what are the odds on a fight starting at a place like that? Larry knows enough to avoid trouble. He’s a good kid. You met him, didn’t you, Steve?”

  “Yes,” Carella said. “He seemed very level‐headed.”

  “Sure, that’s what I told Harriet. Ah, what the hell! These women never cut the umbilical cord. We get raised by one woman, and then when we’re ripe, we get turned over to another woman.”

  Carella smiled. “It’s a conspiracy,” he said.

  “Sometimes I think so,” Byrnes said. “But what would we do without them, huh?” He shook his head sadly, a man trapped in the labial folds of a society structure.

  “Anything from the Feds yet?” Carella asked.

  “No, not yet. Jesus, I’m praying for a break.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “We deserve a break, don’t we?” Byrnes asked. “We’ve worked this one right into the ground. We deserve a break.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come,” Byrnes said.

  Willis entered the room with an envelope. “This just arrived, sir,” he said.

  “FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  Byrnes took the envelope. Hastily, he tore open the flap and pulled out the folded letter.

  “Hell!” he erupted. “Hell and damnation!”

  “Bad?”

  “They’ve got nothing on him!” Byrnes shouted. “Goddamnit! Goddamnit to hell!”

  “Not even service prints?”

  “Nothing. The son of a bitch was probably Four‐F!”

  “We know everything about this guy,” Willis said vehemently, beginning to pace the office. “We know what he looks like, we know his height, his weight, his blood type, when he got his last haircut, the size of his rectal aperture!” He slammed his fist into the opposite hand. “The only thing we don’t know is who the hell he is! Who is he, damn it, who is he?”