please?'
'Yes, of course,' she said, and started for the door
way, and then stopped, and asked, 'Shall I call my husband?'
'Might be a good idea,' Carella said.
'He works nearby,' she said to no one in particular
and then went out into the kitchen. They could hear her
dialing the wall phone there.
'What's it look like?' Blaney asked.
'Asphyxia,' Carella said.
Blaney was already at the bed, leaning over the dead
man as if about to kiss him on the lips. He noticed the
eyes at once. 'This what you mean?' he asked. 'The petechiae?'
'Yes.'
'By no means conclusive evidence of death by asphyxia,' Blaney said flatly. 'You should know that,
Detective. This how he was found? On his back this way?'
'According to the daughter.'
'Couldn't have accidentally smothered then, could
he?'
'I guess not.'
'You have any reason to disbelieve her?'
'Just the blood spots. And the blue feet.'
'Oh? Do we have blue feet as well?' Blaney asked,
and looked toward the foot of the bed. 'Are we suspecting
death by hanging then? Is that it?'
'The daughter says he had a history of heart disease,'
Carella said. 'Maybe it was heart failure. Who knows?'
'Who knows indeed?' Blaney asked the dead man's
feet. 'Let's see what else we've got here, shall we?' he
said, and threw back the blanket.
The dead man was wearing a white shirt open at the
throat, gray flannel trousers fastened with a black belt.
No shoes or socks.
'Goes to bed with all his clothes on, I see,' Blaney
said dryly.
'Barefoot though,' Carella said.
Blaney grunted, unbuttoned the shirt, and slid a stethoscope onto the dead man's chest, not expecting to find a heart beat, and not surprised when he didn't. He removed all the man's garments—he was also wearing striped boxer shorts—and noticed at once the grayish-blue coloration of the corpse's legs, forearms, and hands. 'If he was hanged,' he told Carella, 'and I'm not saying he was, then it was in an upright position. And ;/ he was moved to the bed here, and I'm not saying he was, then it wasn't too soon after he died. Otherwise the postmortem lividity would have faded from the extremities and moved to the back and buttocks. Let's take a look,' he said and rolled the dead man onto his side. His back was pale, his ass as white as a full moon.
'Nope,' he said, and rolled the corpse onto his back again. The man's penis was swollen and distended. 'Postmortem lividity,' Blaney explained. 'Settling of tissue fluids.' There were dried stains in the corpse's undershorts. 'Probably semen,' Blaney said. 'We don't know why, but a seminal discharge is commonplace in cases of asphyxia. Has nothing whatever to do with any sexual activity. Rigor mortis in the seminal vesicles causes it.' He looked at Carella. Carella merely nodded. 'No rope burns,' Blaney said, examining the neck, 'no imprint of a noose, no blisters from pinching or squeezing of the skin. A knot may have caused this,' he said, indicating a small bruise under the chin. 'Did you find any kind of noose?'
'We haven't really made a search yet,' Carella said.
'Well, it certainly looks like a hanging,' Blaney said, 'but who knows?'
'Who knows indeed?' Carella echoed, as if they were
going through a familiar vaudeville routine.
'If I were you, I'd talk to the daughter some more,'
Blaney said. 'Let's see what the autopsy shows. Mean
while, he's dead and he's yours.'
The mobile crime unit arrived some ten minutes later,
after the body and Blaney were both gone. Carella told
them to keep a special lookout for fibers. The chief technician told him they were always on the lookout for fibers, what did he mean by a special lookout? Carella cut his eyes toward where Meyer was talking to Cynthia Keating across the room. The chief technician still didn't know why a special lookout for fibers was necessary, but he didn't ask Carella anything else.
It was starting to rain.
The mandatory date for turning on the heat in this city
was October fifteenth—birthdate of great men, Carella
thought, but did not say. This was already the twenty-
ninth but too many buildings took their time complying
with the law. The rain and the falling temperature outside
combined to make it a little chilly in the apartment. The
technicians, who had just come in from the cold, kept their
coats on. Carella put his coat back on before ambling over
to where Meyer was idly and casually chatting up the dead
man's daughter. They both wanted to know if she'd found the body exactly where she'd said she'd found it, but they
weren't asking that just yet.
'. . . or did you just drop by?' Meyer said.
'He knew I was coming.'
'Did he know what time?'
'No. I just said I'd be by sometime this morning.'
'But he was still in bed when you got here?'
The key question.
'Yes,' she said.
No hesitation on her part.
'Wearing all his clothes?' Carella asked.
She turned toward him. Bad Cop flashed in her eyes.
Too many damn television shows these days, everyone
knew all the cop tricks.
'Yes,' she said. 'Well, not his shoes and socks.'
'Did he always sleep with his clothes on?' Carella
asked.
'No. He must have gotten up and . . .'
'Yes?' Meyer said.
She turned to look at him, suspecting Good Cop, but not yet certain.
'Gone back to bed again,' she explained.
'I see,' Mayer said, and turned to Carella as if seeking
approval of this perfectly reasonable explanation of why
