with Alan. Till all the detectives got there, anyway.” He hesitated a moment and then said, “I assume you never got anything more from that witness. Right?”
“What witness?” Carella asked at once.
“The old bum.”
“What old bum?”
“The one the blues were joking about.”
“Joking? About awitness?” Carella said.
“Well, they were telling Alan about this drunk they’d talked to outside the building.”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“The guy said he’d seen someone running out of the alley.”
“Hewhat?”
“He saw some…”
“Awitnesssaw someone running out of the alley?”
“That’s what the blues were saying, anyway. But he couldn’t have.”
“What do you mean he couldn’t have? Why not?”
“Because the alley he saw the guy coming out of was on the wrong side of the building. Alan told them straight off this was impossible. He’d just finished chasing the killer all over theotherside of the building.”
Carella was thinking that the gun had been found on the wrong side of the building, too. He was thinking that maybe the killer was a magician. Or maybe stage right and stage left were meaningless when it came to murder.
“Thank you,” he said, “we appreciate your time.”
15
OFFICER PATRICIA GOMEZkept wondering how somebody who’d shot somebody from the stage-right wings of the auditorium could have dropped the murder weapon in a sewer in the alley outside stage left. Wouldn’t this person have had tocrossthe stage in order to do that? And wouldn’t someone in the auditorium haveseenhim crossing the stage?
Patricia stood now in the alley outside stage right, where the killershouldhave come out of the auditorium if reason had followed logic. The trouble with police work, however, was that very often nothing seemed logical or reasonable. She had been a cop for only four months so far, and in that amount of time she had seen and heard so many totally illogical and unreasonable things that sometimes she wished she’d become a fire fighter instead, which had been one of the options open to a Puerto Rican girl growing up in the Riverhead section of the city.
Patricia’s first day on the job, walking her beat in her spanking new tailor-made blues, an eleven-year-old girl eating a jelly apple had stepped out of a bodega and onto the sidewalk just as two gangs disputing the same dope-dealing corner opened fire on each other. The girl had been caught in the crossfire. When Patricia came onto the scene, the girl’s blood was staining the freshly fallen snow under her, and her grandmother was holding her in her arms and screaming, “Adelia, no! Adelia! Adelia!” But the girl was already dead.
Patricia found this unreasonable and illogical.
Her sergeant told her, “You get used to it.”
In the ensuing months, she’d seen a man with four big holes in his face where his wife had shot him when she found him in bed with the woman next door; she’d seen a baby whose face had been chewed to ribbons by rats after her mother left her alone in her crib while she went out to the movies with a girlfriend; she’d seen a woman trapped in a car that had crashed into a Mickey D’s, and had watched while the ES guys scissored the car open and lifted the woman out all bleeding and broken and crushed, and she had thought this is unreasonable, this is illogical.
And only two weeks ago, she had thought the same thing when a man of seventy-five had had his throat slit by someone they still hadn’t caught, who had also cleaned out the man’s wallet and thrown it into the gutter where his blood was still running red when Patricia knelt beside him, and said, “You’ll be okay, hang on,” but he was dead, of course, and there was no hanging on, and it was all so totally fucking unreasonable and illogical.
She stood alone in the alleyway now, trying to understand what it might have been like to shoot somebody and then run from the scene of the crime. You shoot from stage right, you run away stage right. You don’t cross a crowded auditorium, and exit stage left, and drop the weapon in a sewer on the opposite side of the building. You do not do that. I have seen too many illogical and unreasonable things in these past four months, but I have to tell you I would not do that if I had just shot and killed a man.
So whatwouldI do? she asked herself.
I would come out through the doors there, and because I would have the murder weapon in my hand, I would immediately dump it in the most convenient place. Which would be the sewer right there under the drain pipe. But no. The killer had gone to theotherside of the building and dumped the gun there. It didn’t make sense. The gun should have been onthisside of the building.
Unless.
Well, this was just supposing.
But suppose there’d been an accomplice? Suppose there’d been two of them in on it,twopeople who wanted the councilman dead for whatever reasons of their own…well, at the Academy they’d been taught there were only two reasons for murder, and those reasons were love or money. Socherchez la femme,honey, or follow the money, cause that’s all there is to know, and all you need to know.
Suppose I shoot him from stage right…
…and I hand off the gun to an accomplice, who goes out the doors on the left side of the building and drops the gun there…
While meanwhile…
Now let’s just hold this a minute, she thought.
No, that’s right,meanwhileI’m on the right side of the building, no gun anymore, and I go strolling away from the building and up the avenue, nothing to attract attention anymore, no gun, no nothing, you solved the fucking crime, Patricia!
So how come nobody saw me? she asked herself.
I pop six caps from the wings there, nobody sees me?
How often do people get shot in this place?
I mean, okay, maybe nobody on thestagegot a good look at me, I’m in the wings, after all, and there must’ve been a lot of confusion, somebody getting shot. But how aboutoffthe stage,backstage,whatever they call it? How aboutthere?Nobody standing there with a broom or a mop? Nobody in the whole damn building who saw me leaving the place—whichever side I left it, right, left, who cares?—nobody saw meleavingthe scene of the crime?
Didn’t Ollie question anybody whoworkshere?
I’ll bet he questionedeverybodywho works here, he’s a good cop, Iguesshe’s a good cop, I’m only a rookie, what do I know? And besides, the patrol sarge is going to start wondering why I’m not out on the beat right this minute, where people might illogically and unreasonably be getting themselves killed.
She looked at her watch.
It was almost lunch time.
She decided she would call in and say she was taking five.
Then, instead of grabbing a bite to eat, she would go into King Memorial for twenty minutes or so, and see if she could scare up a custodian or something.
ALTHOUGH OLLIE’S SISTERonce told him there might have been a touch of the shamrock in their own heritage, he did not particularly like people of Irish descent. Ollie preferred thinking of himself as descending from British aristocracy. He knew for an absolute fact that his ancestry could be traced back to Norman times in England, when—according to the Domesday Book—a lord of the barony of Hastings held a knight’s fief in Wikes,
