WOUNDS CHART, GREGORY CRAIG:
Slash wound across throat ¾" long.
Slash wound across throat just under first one, 2½" long.
Stab wound 1½" right of midline just over collarbone.
Stab wound 4½" right of midline and 4" above nipple.
Stab wound over midline and in line with nipples.
Slash wound on chest beginning on midline approx. 5" below chin and tailing downward and to the left 2" long.
Stab wound 1½" left of midline and over collarbone.
Stab wound 8½" left of midline and 3" below nipple.
Stab wound (entry and exit) midway between elbow and armpit, on inside of arm.
Slash wound 1" long on outside of left wrist.
Slash wound 1¼" long on inside of right wrist.
Stab wound on back 15" below base of skull and 5½" left of midline.
Stab wound on back 15" below base of skull and 3" left of midline.
Stab wound on back 13¼" below base of skull and 3½" left of midline.
Stab wound on back 12" below base of skull and 8" left of midline.
Stab wound on back 20" below base of skull and 3½" left of midline.
Slash wound on inside of ring finger of right hand.
Stab wound (entry and exit) on top side of middle finger of right hand.
Slash wound right side of head above ear and tailing downward 1½" long.
That was a whole hell of a lot of stab and slash wounds. They didn’t quite add up to the estimate Carella had given the Homicide cops at the scene, but they were sufficient to indicate that whoever had killed Craig had really and truly wanted him dead; you do not hack away at a person nineteen times unless you want to make sure. On the other hand, Marian Esposito—as she’d been identified from a driver’s license in her shoulder bag—had been stabbed only once, just below the left breast, the blade entering her chest and her heart and apparently killing her at once. If the crimes were related, as they seemed to be, the logical assumption was that she had got in the killer’s way as he was fleeing the scene of the first murder. Even before Hawes came in with the morning paper, Carella had decided that the line of investigation should concentrate on Craig. He marked the case folder “R-76532,” and on the folder for Marian Esposi to, he wrote in the words “Companion Case R-76532” following her case number, R-76533.
The squadroom that Friday morning, December 22, was relatively quiet. The suicides would not start till Christmas Eve, and then they’d taper off a bit till New Year’s Eve, when there’d be another rash of them. Miscolo in the Clerical Office had casually mentioned that there’d be a full moon on New Year’s Eve. The full moon would compound the number of suicides. Holidays and full moons, it never failed. In the meantime, there’d been an increase in incidents of shoplifting and picking pockets, but burglaries, muggings, rapes, and robberies had fallen off; go figure it. Maybe all the burglars, muggers, rapists, and armed robbers were out shopping the department stores and getting their pockets picked.
The squad’s duty chart hung on the wall alongside the water-cooler, where the lieutenant figured it was certain to be read. The Police Department respected no holidays, but the duty chart for every Christmas Eve and Christmas Day normally listed almost exclusively the names of Jewish detectives who had traded off with their Christian colleagues. This year, however, things were different. How was this year different from all other years? This year, Christmas and the first day of Hanukkah happened to fall on the very same day—December the twenty-fifth, naturally—providing ample evidence of the brotherhood of man and the solidarity of the democratic ideal. It caused problems only for the cops. Everybody wanted to be off on Monday, when the twin holiday occurred. But everybody couldn’t be off on Monday because then all those cheap thieves out there would run amok.
Compromise.
In police work, as in marriage, compromise was essential. Henny Youngman’s repertoire included a joke about the man who wants to buy a new car and his wife who wants to buy a mink coat. They compromise. The wife buys a mink coat and keeps it in the garage. Steve Carella and Meyer Meyer compromised by tossing a coin. Carella won. He would work on Christmas Eve, and Meyer would work on the first day of Hanukkah. But that was before the Eight-Seven caught the double homicide. With a homicide case, you worked it into the ground during those first few important days. Carella had the gnawing suspicion that he’d be with this one a long time—a hot pastrami sandwich and a bottle of soda pop in the squadroom on Christmas Day. Terrific.
At his desk across the room, alongside one of the wire-mesh grilles that protected the squadroom from missiles flung at the windows by an unappreciative precinct citizenry—and incidentally kept any prisoners from leaping out to the street below—Detective Richard Genero sat typing up a report on a burglary that was three weeks old. Genero was a short dark man with curly black hair and brown eyes. He had recently taken to wearing Benjamin Franklin eyeglasses whenever he typed his reports, presumably to better his spelling. He still spelled “perpetrator” as “perpatrater,” a fatal failing in any police department. He had a transistor radio going on his desk, and the strains of “Silent Night, Holy Night” flooded the squadroom. Carella listened to the music and guessed that if Lieutenant Byrnes walked in this very minute, Genero would be back walking a beat before the new year. Genero typed in time to the music. Carella wondered when he would ask how to spell “surveillance.”
It was 10:37 A.M. by the squadroom clock. The snow of the night before had ended shortly before dawn, and the sky outside was now a blue as bright as a bride’s garter. From beyond the squadroom windows, Carella could hear the sounds of tire chains jangling, an appropriate accompaniment for “Jingle Bells,” which now replaced “Silent Night” on Genero’s transistor. He did not much feel like working today. He had told the twins he’d take them to see Santa Claus sometime this week—but that, too, was before the double homicide.
“Where is everybody?” Hawes said from beyond the slatted wooden railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor outside. “Did you see this, Steve?” he asked, and came through the gate in the railing. “We got ourselves a biggie.” He tossed the morning paper onto Carella’s desk and then went to the water-cooler. The paper was folded open to the page opposite the book review.
The obit on Gregory Craig told Carella that the man had written a best-selling book titled Deadly Shades, which presumably had been based on his own experiences with ghosts in a house he’d rented in Massachusetts three summers ago. The book had topped the nonfiction best-seller list for a full year and had been reprinted six months ago, garnering a paperback advance of $1.5 million. The motion picture was currently being filmed in Wales, of all places, with a British star playing Craig and a galaxy of fading well-known actresses in cameo roles as the shades who’d plagued his hoped-for vacation. The obit went on to say that he’d written a half dozen novels before turning out his nonfiction blockbuster, listing them all by title and quoting some of the reviews the newspaper had given him over the past twelve years. There’d been a hiatus of five years between his last novel and the ghost book. His sole survivor was listed as Miss Abigail Craig, a daughter. The obit did not mention the murder of Marian Esposito, Companion Case R-76533.
“What do you think?” Hawes said, and crumpled the paper cup he was holding, and tossed it at Carella’s wastebasket, missing.
“I think they saved us some legwork,” Carella said, and opened the Isola telephone directory.
