Lady Killer

A pair of police handcuffs resembles the five-and-dime stuff purchased for kids, except the police stuff is for real. They are made out of steel, forged into a slender, narrow, impervious, portable jail. The movable arm is bolted into the body of the cuff. The movable arm has a saw-tooth edge that, when engaged with the body, catches and holds there. Like blood travelling through a vein, the saw-tooth edge cannot reverse its course; it can only move forward. It can, in fact, move completely through the body of the cuff itself, completing a full circle, so that a key is not necessary to open the wristlet before it is clamped on to the wrist. The arresting officer simply squeezes the movable arm into and through the body of the cuff until the arm emerges on the other side. He then clamps it on to the wrist and wedges it shut again. The wrist prevents the movable arm from making the full circle again. To take the cuff off the wrist, a key is necessary.

A trio of metal links attaches one wrist cuff to the other. The cuffs are not at all comfortable. If they are placed on the wrists with care, it is possible to keep them from biting into the flesh. But the average arresting officer squeezes the cuff to snap the movable arm into its open position, and then hastily clamps the cuff on to the wrist and squeezes again until the metal collides with flesh and bone. When a pair of handcuffs is taken off a prisoner, the prisoner's wrists are usually raw and lacerated—and sometimes bleeding.

Not very much delicacy had been used on the man Meyer led into the squad-room. He had just been shooting it out with a gang of policemen, and when they had finally collared him, they'd clamped the cuffs on to his wrists with barely controlled ferocity. The metal was biting into his flesh and paining him. Meyer shoved him into the room, and the metal cuffs bit further as he moved his arms trying to maintain his balance.

'Here's a big man,' Meyer said to Hawes. 'Tried to hold off half the precinct, didn't you, big man?'

The prisoner did not answer.

'The jewellery store on Tenth and Culver,' Meyer said. 'He was inside with a gun when the beat patrolman spotted him. Brave man. A daylight hold-up. You're a brave man, aren't you?'

The prisoner did not answer.

'He started shooting the minute he saw the patrolman. A cruising squad car heard the shots and joined the battle, and then radioed for another car. The second car called back here for help. A regular hero's siege, huh, big man?' Meyer asked.

The prisoner did not answer.

'Sit down, big man,' Meyer said.

The prisoner sat.

'What's your name?'

'Louis Gallagher.'

'You been in trouble before, Gallagher?'

'No.'

'We'll check it, so don't start with a snow job.'

'I've never been in trouble before,' Gallagher said.

'Miscolo got any coffee?' Kling asked, and he started down the corridor. Carella was just returning from the steps. 'Get rid of her, Steve?'

'Yeah,' Carella said. 'How were the docks?'

'Hot.'

'You plan on going home?'

'Yeah. Soon as I have some coffee.'

'You'd better stick around. We've got a nut loose.'

'What do you mean?'

'A letter. Going to kill a dame at eight tonight. Stick around. Pete may need you.'

'I'm bushed, Steve.'

'No kidding?' Carella said, and he walked into the squad-room.

'You've got a record, haven't you, Gallagher?' Meyer asked.

'No. I told you once already.'

'Gallagher, we've got a lot of unsolved hold-ups in this neighbourhood.'

'That's your problem. You're the cops.'

'You do them?'

'I held up the store today because I need dough. That's all. This is the first time I ever did anything like this. How about taking the cuffs off and letting me go?'

'Oh, brother, you slay me,' Willis said. He turned to Hawes. 'He tries to shoot us, and then he cops a plea.'

'Who's copping a plea?' Gallagher said. 'I'm asking you to forget the whole thing.'

Willis stared at the man as if he were a dangerous lunatic ready to begin slashing passers-by with a razor. 'It must be the heat,' he said unblinkingly.

'Come on,' Gallagher said. 'How about it? How about giving me a break?'

'Look—'

'What the hell did I do? Shoot a little? Did I hurt anybody? Hell, I gave you a little excitement. Come on, be good guys. Take off these cuffs and send me on my way.'

Willis mopped his brow. 'He isn't kidding, you know that, don't you, Meyer?'

'Come on, Meyer,' Gallagher said, 'be a sp—' and Meyer slapped him across the face.

'Don't talk to me, big man. Don't use my name, or I'll ram it down your throat. This your first hold-up?'

Gallagher looked at Meyer with hooded eyes, nursing his hurt cheek. 'You I wouldn't give the sweat off my—' he started, and Meyer hit him again.

'How many other hold-ups you pull in this precinct?'

Gallagher was silent.

'Somebody asked you a question,' Willis said.

Gallagher looked up at Willis, including him in his hatred.

Carella walked over to the group. 'Well, well, hello, Louie,' he said.

Gallagher looked at him blankly. 'I don't know you,' he said.

'Why, Louie,' Carella said, 'your memory is getting bad. Don't you remember me? Steve Carella. Think, Louie.'

'Is this guy a bull?' Gallagher asked. 'I never seen him before in my life.'

'The bakery, Louie? Nineteen forty-nine? South Third? Remember, Louie?'

'I don't eat cake,' Gallagher said.

'You weren't there buying cake, Louie. You were sticking up the joint. I happened to be walking by. Remember now?'

'Oh,' Gallagher said. 'That.'

'When'd you get out, Louie?' Carella'asked.

'What difference does it make? I'm out.'

'And back at the old pushcart,' Meyer said. 'When'd you get out?'

'You got ten years for armed robbery, Gallagher,' Carella said. 'What happened? Parole?'

'Yeah.'

'When did you get out?' Meyer repeated.

'About six months ago,' Gallagher said.

'I guess you enjoyed your stay with the state, huh?' Meyer asked. 'You're itching to get back.'

'Come on, let's forget the whole deal,' Gallagher said. 'Whattya wanna be rotten guys for, huh?'

'Why do you want to be a rotten guy, Gallagher?'

'Who, me? I don't want to be rotten,' Gallagher said. 'It's a compulsion.'

'Now I've seen everything,' Meyer said. 'Psychiatrist thieves! It's too much, too much. Come on, bum, the lieutenant's gonna want to talk to you. On your feet. Come on.'

One of the phones rang. Hawes picked it up.

'Eighty-seventh Squad, Hawes,' he said.

'Cotton, this is Sam Grossman.'

'Hello, Sam, what've you got?'

'Nothing much. Prints that match up with the ones on the glasses, but… Well, let's face it, Cotton. We haven't got time to give that apartment the going-over it should get. Not before eight o'clock, anyway.'

'Why? What time is it?' Hawes asked.

'It's past six already,' Grossman said, and Hawes looked up at the wall clock and saw that it was exactly five minutes past six. Where had the last hour gone?

'Yeah. Well…' he started, and then he couldn't think of anything to say.

'There's just one thing that might help you,' Grossman said. 'Maybe you saw it already.'

'What's that?'

'We picked it up in the kitchen. On the window sill over the sink. It has the suspect's prints on it, so maybe he used it. In any case, he handled it.'

'What, Sam?'

'A card. You know, a business card.'

'What's the business?' Hawes asked, picking up a pencil.

'It's a card for the Jo-George Diner. That's two words, hyphenated. No e on the Jo.'