wishing to break their hugely intense concentration, Ollie waited a moment before flashing the tin and introducing himself.
“I’d like to talk to you privately, Mr. Handel,” he said. “If your friend here doesn’t mind.”
“I’m three moves away from checkmate,” his friend said.
Ollie wondered how chess players knew such things.
“Take a walk around the block,” he suggested. “It’s turning into a nice day.”
“He’ll figure out my game plan,” the man complained, and waddled off grudgingly.
Ollie took his place at the chess table. He and Handel sat in dappled sunshine. Women strolled by pushing baby carriages. Across the street, young dealers were selling dope to college students. Ollie wondered where the hell all the cops were in this city.
“I understand you were in the booth up there when Henderson got shot,” Ollie said.
“Yeah,” Handel said.
Over a plaid sports shirt, Handel was wearing a brown woolen cardigan with darker brown buttons, what Ollie’s sister called a “candy-store sweater.” Combined with wide-waled brown corduroy trousers, the ill-fitting sweater made him look exceptionally stout. Ollie wondered why such people didn’t go on diets.
“Tell me what you saw,” he said.
“I was following him from stage left, the spot on him all the way. Somebody shot him just as he reached the podium.”
“Where’d the shots come from, do you know?”
“Stage right.”
“What does that mean, stage right, stage left?”
“The person’s right or left. The person standing on stage.Hisright or left. Looking out at the audience.”
“So, if he was approaching the podium from the left…”
“Hisleft, yes.”
“You’re saying somebody fired at him as he approached.”
“Somebody fired from stageright,yes.”
“How many shots did you hear?”
“Quite a few.”
“Five, six?”
“At least.”
“Did you see anyone sitting in the balcony?”
“I wasn’t looking at the balcony. I was looking at the stage. My job was to keep that spot on him.”
“Are you sure those shots didn’t come from the balcony?”
“I’m positive. I saw the muzzle flashes.”
“But not the shooter?”
“Not the shooter. Just the muzzle flashes. And then he was falling. I kept the spot on him as he fell. Those were my instructions. Keep the spot on him. I kept the spot on him till somebody yelled for me to turn it off.”
“Who was that, would you know?”
“No, sir, I would not. I guess it was somebody running the show. So I turned it off. And then somebody turned on the house lights.”
“When the house lights came on, did you see anybody in the wings?”
“Nobody. I guess whoever’d done the shooting was gone by then.”
“Stage right, you say.”
“Was where I saw the muzzle flashes.” Handel hesitated. Then he said, “It can be confusing. Would you like me to draw a diagram?”
CARELLA AND KLINGwere waiting for Ollie when he got back to the Eight-Eight’s squadroom at five minutes to three that Wednesday afternoon. Ollie was carrying two white pizza cartons. He opened one of them, shoved it across his desk, said, “This is for you guys, my treat,” and then opened the second carton and began eating even before they sat down. Kling, who had never seen Ollie eating before, watched in amazement.
“Something, Sonny Boy?” Ollie asked.
“Nothing,” Kling said, but he continued shaking his head in wonder.
It was like a juggling act. With only two hands, Ollie seemed to keep three slices of pizza in constant motion from the box to his mouth. But now, adding to the splendor and mystery of the act, he added a fourth element. As if suddenly growing another hand, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, and took from it a folded sheet of paper, which he tossed onto the desk top, never missing a pizza-beat, pizza to mouth, paper to desk, more pizza to mouth, incredible.
“Take a look at this,” he said, and nodded at the sheet of paper while biting into what appeared to be two slices of pizza at the same time.
“What is it?” Carella asked.
“Diagram from the electrical guy.”
Carella put down his slice of pizza, unfolded the sheet of paper, and flattened it on the desk top.
“The podium’s in the center there,” Ollie said. “Henderson came on stage left, walked across to it, got shot just as he reached it. The shooter was in the wings stage right. The electrical guy saw repeated muzzle flashes, are you guys going to finish that pizza or what?”
“Go ahead, have a slice,” Kling said.
He was eager to see if Ollie could juggle four slices simultaneously.
“Kept the follow spot on him all the way to the floor, dedicated, huh?” Ollie said, hands reaching, mouth working, teeth biting, sauce and toppings and cheese dripping all over his hands and his shirt and the desk top. Astonishing, Kling thought.
“Is there a Detective Weeks here?” someone said.
They all turned toward the slatted wooden railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor outside. A female police officer was standing there. She was holding a manila envelope in her right hand. The wordEVIDENCEwas printed across the face of the envelope.
“I’m Detective Weeks,” Ollie said.
“Officer Gomez,” she said, and opened the gate in the railing and walked over to the desk. She was trying to learn attitude. Fresh out of the Academy, her uniform trimly tailored, the buttons all shiny and bright, even her shield looking glistening new, she walked with a sort of sidelong gait that tried to negate her obvious femininity while emphasizing the authority of the Glock on her hip.
“I was asked to bring this over,” she said, and placed the envelope on the desk. “You have to sign the Chain of Custody tag.”
“I know, honey,” Ollie said.
“It’s Officer Gomez, Detective,” she said, firmly but politely correcting him.
“Oh my, so it is,” Ollie said, glancing at the name tag pinned above her perky left breast, which readP.GOMEZin white on black. He signed for the envelope, hefted it on the palm of his hand, and said, “Would you happen to know what’s inside here, Officer Gomez?”
“Yes, sir,” Gomez said. “I was there when it was recovered at the scene.”
“And where would that have been, this scene, Officer Gomez?”
“In the alley outside the auditorium at King Memorial. Down the sewer there, sir.”
“I see, ah yes,” Ollie said, and opened the envelope.
Someone diligent seemed to have retrieved what looked like a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver.
• • •
OLLIE WAS JUST LEAVINGthe squadroom at a quarter to six that evening when the call from Ballistics came. The detective calling had a thick Hispanic accent. Ollie could hardly understand him. He wondered why these people didn’t learn to speak English. He also wondered why every time you called a movie theater to find out what was playing or what time the show went on, the person on the recorded message was somebody who’d learned English in Bulgaria. You had to call the number two, three times to get the message played all over again because you couldn’t figure out if it was Meg Ryan in the damn picture or Tom Cruise. He figured this was some kind of dumb-ass equal-opportunity program. If you had to record a telephone message essential to your business, what
