"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.
"Goodbye, 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 hi the area, together with a verbal description of the wanted man.
All this while, the detectives waited for the F.B.I. 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 F.B.I, 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.