Hail to the Chief

'Mmm,' Meyer said.

'What do you think?' Pierce-Hoyt said.

'Who did you say you were doing this story for?' Meyer asked.

'Nobody yet.'

'Nobody yet,' Meyer repeated, and nodded.

'But I'll sell it, don't worry,' Pierce-Hoyt said. 'So what do you think?'

'You want me to answer this on the telephone?' Meyer said. 'Right this minute?'

'Well, yes, if…'

'Impossible,' Meyer said.

'Why?'

'Because first of all, I have to check with the lieutenant. And second of all, how do I know you're really Mr. Pierce-Hoyt and not somebody else? And third of all, I have to gather my thoughts.'

'Well, um, yes, I see,' Pierce-Hoyt said. 'Well, do you want me to come up there?'

'Not until I talk to the lieutenant and see if it's okay.'

'When do you think you'll be able to talk to him?'

'Sometime today. Let me have your number and I'll get back to you in the morning.'

'Fine,' Pierce-Hoyt said, and gave Meyer the number. The other phone on Meyer's desk was ringing. He said an abrupt goodbye to Pierce-Hoyt and picked up the receiver.

'87th Squad, Detective Meyer,' he said.

The caller was a woman who had seen the photographs of the multiple-murder victims in that morning's newspaper, and said she knew who the white man with the beard was.

The woman's name was Phyllis Kingsley.

She lived in Isola, near the River Dix, which formed the southern boundary of the island. Had she lived two blocks farther uptown, she'd have been in that exclusive and luxurious section known as Stewart City. As it was, she lived in a tenement on a block with several furniture warehouses and two parking garages. Carella and Kling got there at eleven o'clock that Tuesday morning, January 8. The thermometer had risen only slightly; the temperature hovered in the mid-twenties. Phyllis Kingsley greeted them wrapped in a handwoven afghan, and told them something had been wrong with the heat all night long, and it still hadn't been fixed. They went into the living room, where the windows were covered with rime.

'We understand you can identify one of the murder victims,' Carella said.

'Yes,' Phyllis answered. She was a woman in her late thirties, with carrot-colored hair and green eyes that made her look very Irish. Her complexion was fair and sprinkled with freckles. She was not a pretty woman, and there was something about her manner that indicated vulnerability. The detectives waited, expecting her to say more than the single word 'Yes.' When it became apparent that nothing further was coming Carella asked, 'Who was he, can you tell us?'

'My brother,' she said.

'His name?'

'Andrew Kingsley.'

'How old was he?' Carella asked. He had exchanged a silent glance with Kling the moment the woman began talking. It was Kling, seated slightly to the left of her and beyond her field of vision, who now jotted the information into a notebook while Carella asked the questions, a technique that made the person talking feel more at ease.

'He was twenty-eight,' Phyllis replied.

'Where did he live?' Carella asked.

'Here. Temporarily. He just arrived from California a few weeks ago.'

'Did he have a job?'

'No. Well, on the Coast he had one. But he quit that to come here.'

'What kind of work did he do?'

'I think he was a carhop. At one of the hamburger places they have out there.'

'Why did he come to this city, Miss Kingsley, can you tell us?'

'Well, he said he'd been into a lot of things out there that helped him to find where his head was at, and he was anxious to get back East and put some of his ideas to work.'

'What sort of ideas?'

'Well, he had ideas about the ghettos and of what he could do to help the people living in the ghettos. He was doing work in Watts out there.'

'What kind of work?'

'He organized a drama group for the black kids in Watts. He was a drama major in college. That's why he went to California to begin with. He thought he could get work in the movies or in television, but you know…' She shrugged, and then clasped her hands in her lap.

'When did he arrive exactly, Miss Kingsley? From California, I mean. Would you remember?'

'It was two weeks ago yesterday.'

'And he was living here? In this apartment?'

'Yes. I have an extra room.'

'Did he know anybody in this city? Besides you?'

'He was born and raised here. He knew a lot of people.'

'The other pictures in the paper…'

'No,' she said, and shook her head.

'You didn't recognize any of them?'

'No.'

'You wouldn't know whether any of them were your brother's friends."

'None of them looked familiar.'

'Did he have black friends? Or Puerto Ricans?'

'Yes.'

'Did you ever meet any of them?'

'No.'

'Did you ever meet any of his friends?'

'Yes, he brought a man home with him one night.'

'A white man?'

'Yes.'

'Would you remember his name?'

'David Harris.'

'Did your brother introduce him as one of his friends?'

'They had just met, I believe.'

'Do you know what kind of work he did?'

'He didn't say. I got the feeling…' She shook her head.

'Yes, go on.'

'I didn't like him very much.'

'Why not?'

'I don't know. He seemed… I felt he was not a good person.'

'What made you feel that, Miss Kingsley?'

'He seemed… violent. I had the feeling he was capable of enormous violence. He made me extremely uncomfortable. I'm glad Andy never brought him back here again.'

'How old was he?'

'In his thirties, I would guess.'

'Any idea where he lives?'

'In the Quarter, I think. He mentioned Audibon Avenue. That's in the Quarter, isn't it?'

'Yes. What else can you tell us about him?'

'Do you think he killed my brother?'

'We have no ideas about that as yet, Miss Kingsley."

'I'll bet he did,' Phyllis said, and nodded gently. 'He seemed like the kind of person who could do murder.'

'What did he look like?'

'He was very tall and quite good-looking. A dark complexion, longish brown hair.'

'When was he here with your brother?'

'A week ago? Six days ago? I'm not sure.'

'When did you last see your brother alive?'

'Sunday night.'

'Did he say where he was going?'

'He said he had business uptown.'

'Where uptown?'

'He only said uptown.'

'What kind of business?'

'He didn't say.'

'What time did he leave here?'

'About six o'clock.'

'Did he say what time he'd be back?'

'No.'

'Were you expecting him back?'

'I had no expectations either way. He often stayed out all night He had his own key. He was an adult, I never questioned him about his comings and goings.'

'What was he wearing the last time you saw him?'

'A Navy pea jacket, a plaid shirt, dark trousers… brown or blue, I'm not sure.'

'Hat? Gloves?'

'Black leather gloves, no hat.'

'Muffler?'

'No.'

'Wallet? Keys?'

'He had a black leather wallet, I assume he was carrying it with him. The only key he had was the key to this apartment.'

'We're very anxious to know where he might have been heading on the night he was killed, Miss Kingsley. Would your brother have kept a diary, or an appointment book, or even a calendar on which he might have marked…?'

'I'll show you his room,' Phyllis said, and rose, and pulled the afghan tighter around her shoulders, and led them through the apartment. There were four rooms altogether: the living room in which they had interrogated Phyllis, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. Andrew Kingsley's room was at the end of a long windowless corridor. The corridor was hung with photographs of people dressed in clothing of the thirties, forties, and fifties. Carella assumed they were family pictures. The pictures could have been taken anywhere in the city. Or anywhere in any city, for that matter. There was one picture of a very young boy standing before what looked like a late-forties automobile. Carella hesitated before it, and Phyllis immediately said, 'My brother. He was only four when the picture was taken.' In the next breath she said, 'It's hard to believe he's dead. He's been gone from this city for a long time, first to college and then California, it's not that I saw him that often. And yet… it's hard to believe. It's very hard to believe.'