Killer's Choice

So he walked the streets of the precinct, and he didn't say hello to anybody because everybody could go and. But he walked with his shoulders back and his head high and a sort of lopsided grin on his massive face, and he felt pretty good, even though he hated to admit it to himself.

There was a grocery store at the end of the street, and the man who owned the grocery store was called Tony Rigatoni, and everybody called him Tony-Tony, and Havilland decided he would stop in on Tony-Tony to say hello, even though he didn't particularly like Tony-Tony. It didn't hurt a man to say hello to someone before he went into the subway.

That is when the funny thing happened.

As Havilland approached Tony-Tony's grocery, he saw that someone was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the store. The person was well dressed and didn't look at all like a hood or a wino, and perhaps Havilland had drunk too deeply of the heady June air. Whatever the reason, Havilland didn't walk up to the man and say, 'Get on your feet, punk,' as was his wont to do. He sort of ambled over to him slowly and casually and then, standing in front of the plate glass window of the shop, he politely inquired, 'Are you all right, mister?'

Now this was a throwback to the day Havilland had stepped into that street brawl to defend the kid who was getting his lumps. This was a definite throwback, and perhaps Havilland felt that warning trigger click someplace inside his head because his hand snapped slightly upwards toward his shoulder holster, but it snapped too late.

The man on the sidewalk got up with a sudden lurch. He threw his shoulder against Havilland's chest and sent him flying backwards into the plate glass window. Then he ran off down the sidewalk.

Havilland didn't know that Tony-Tony was lying behind the counter of his grocery, badly beaten. He did not know that the young man had entered Tony-Tony's store and held him up, or that Tony-Tony had fired a shot from the .22 he kept under the cash register as the young man was departing. He did not know that Tony-Tony had collapsed from his beating immediately afterwards, or that the young man on the sidewalk was carrying a .22 calibre slug in his shoulder, which had dumped him on the sidewalk in the first place. He didn't know any of these things.

Havilland knew only that he was flying backwards, off balance. He knew only that he collided with the plate glass window, and that the window shattered around him in a thousand flying fragments of sharp splinters. He felt sudden pain, and he yelled, with something close to tears in his voice, 'You bastard! You dirty bastard! You can go and—' but that was all he said. He never said another word.

One of the shards of glass had pierced his jugular vein and another had pierced his windpipe, and that was the end of Roger Havilland.

Around the corner, the young man got into a 1947 Dodge and drove away. An old lady saw him screech away from the kerb. She did not notice the licence-plate number of the car. When the car had left, she bent down to examine the sidewalk and blinked when her hands came away wet with blood.

There were a lot of old ladies around the grocery store when Detective Cotton Hawes arrived. He had left Carella back at the squad and hopped into a patrol car the moment the squeal came in. He stepped out of the car now, and the crowd parted respectfully because this was the Law, and Cotton Hawes indeed looked like the Law. His red head towered above the crowd, the white streak looking like the lightning crease on the head of Captain Ahab. Or at least on the head of Gregory Peck.

The patrolman standing in the grocery-store doorway walked to him as he approached. He did not recognize Hawes. He blinked at him.

'I'm Detective Hawes,' Hawes said. 'Steve Carella's catching. He sent me out.'

'This ain't so good,' the patrolman said.

'What isn't?'

'Proprietor of the store's been beat up bad. Cash register's been cleaned out. You know Havilland?'

'Havilland who?'

'Rog Havilland. He's on the squad.'

'I was introduced to him,' Hawes said, nodding. 'What about him?'

'He's sitting in the window.'

'What?'

'He's dead.' The patrolman grinned slightly. 'Funny, huh? Who'd have ever thought anything could kill Rog Havilland?'

'I don't see anything funny about it,' Hawes said. 'Get this crowd back. Is the proprietor inside?'

'Yes, sir,' the patrolman said.

'I'm going in. Get into the crowd and get the names and addresses of any eyewitnesses. Do you know how to write?'

'Huh? Of course I know how to write.'

'Then start writing,' Hawes said, and he went into the shop.

Tony Rigatoni was sitting in a chair, a second patrolman standing alongside him. Hawes spoke to the patrolman first.

'Call Carella,' he said. 'Tell him we've got a homicide. This was reported as a stickup. Tell him the corpse is Roger Havilland. Do it quick.'

'Yes, sir,' the patrolman said, and he left the shop.

'I'm Detective Hawes,' Hawes said to Rigatoni. 'I don't think I know your name, sir.'

'Rigatoni.'

'What happened, Mr Rigatoni?'

He looked at Rigatoni's face. Whoever had beaten him had done a merciless job.

'This man come in the shop,' Rigatoni said. 'He tell me empty the cash register. I tell him go to hell. He hit me.'

'What'd he use?'

'His hands. He wear gloves. In June. He hit me hard. He keep hitting me. The shade on my door, he pulled down when he come in, you know?'

'Go ahead.'

'He come around behind the counter and empty the register. I got the whole day receipts in there.'

'How much?'

'Two hundred, three hundred, something like. Son of a bitch takes it.'

'Where were you?'

'On the floor. He beat me bad. I could hardly stand. He starts running out the shop. I get up. I keep a gun in the drawer under the register. A .22. I got a licence, don't worry. I shoot him.'

'Did you hit him?'

'I think so. I think I see him fall. Then I get dizzy, and I collapse.'

'How'd Havilland crash that window?'

'Who the hell is Havilland?'

'The detective who smashed through your window.'

'I didn't know he was a bull. I don't know how that happened. I was out.'

'When'd you come to?'

'Five minutes ago. Just before I called the cops.'

'How old was this man? The one who held you up?'

'Twenty-three, twenty-four. No older.'

'White or coloured?'

'White.'

'What colour hair?'

'Blond.'

'Eyes?'

'I don't know.'

'Didn't you notice?'

'No.'

'How was he dressed?'

'A sports jacket. A sports shirt, no tie. Gloves. Black gloves.'

'Did he have a gun?'

'If he had one, he didn't use it.'

'Moustache?'

'No. He was a kid.'

'Notice any scars, birthmarks, anything like that?'

'No.'

'Was he alone?'

'All alone.'

'Did he walk away or drive away?'

'I don't know. I told you. I was out. Like a light. Son of a bitch almost broke my jaw. I ever see him again…'

'Excuse me, sir,' one of the patrolmen said from the door.

Hawes turned. 'What is it?'

'We got an old lady out here.'

'Yeah?'

'Says she saw the guy get into a car and drive away.'

'I'll talk to her,' Hawes said, and he walked out of the shop.

'This is her,' the patrolman said.

Hawes looked at the woman. It would have been easy to believe, at first glance, that the woman was a crackpot. She had straggly grey hair which she had not bothered to comb since she had grown it. In all likelihood, she had not washed since the city had had its last water-scarcity scare. She wore a tattered green shawl and shoes which looked as if they belonged to her grandson who was stationed with the Air Force in Alaska. A faded red rose was pinned to the green shawl. And to substantiate the early impression of a crackpot, one of the other women in the crowd whispered, 'That's Crazy Connie.'