Carella put one hand into the dog’s collar and led him back to where he’d parked the car. He did not want a dog, and he especially did not want a dog that would not eat. He could visualize the dog getting skinnier and skinnier and finally wasting away to a shadow of his former self. He wondered if the dog had really been given all the shots a dog needed, whatever those shots might be. He did not want a dog, nor did he want a dog wasting away, but most especially he did not want a rabid dog wasting away. He decided to look at the assorted hanging clutter of metal junk on the dog’s collar.
There was a brass tag stamped with the words Dog License, and the name of the city, and the year, and the six-digit license number. There was a stainless-steel tag stamped with the name and address of a Dr. James Kopel, presumably a veterinarian, and beneath that the words I Have Been Vaccinated Against Rabies, and the year, and a four-digit number. There was another stainless-steel tag with the words Guiding Eye School stamped on it, and beneath that the Perry Street address of the school. There was yet another stainless-steel tag stamped with the words I Belong to James R. Harris, and beneath that, Harris’ address on South Seventh and a telephone number.
There was also a stainless-steel key.
Carella could not imagine why a dog was wearing a key around his neck until he saw the word Mosler stamped on the head of the key just below the hole where a metal ring fastened it to the collar. There was dirt — or rather, soil — caked around the edges of the hole. The key was a safety deposit box key, and Carella was willing to bet his next year’s salary that it had once been buried in the flower box on the Harris window sill. He knew the name of Harris’ bank because he’d seen it on the passbook he and Meyer found in the apartment — First Federal on Yates Avenue. He also knew he would need a court order to open that box, key in hand or not. It did not hurt that he was downtown at the Headquarters Building; the municipal, state and federal courthouses were all scattered here within a five-block radius. He took the key from the dog’s collar, and then led the dog back to the cop in the office.
“What, again?" the cop said.
Fifteen
It was a little past two o’clock when Sam Grossman called Detective George Underhill at the Four-One.
“I’ve got a report on that blood sample,” he said.
“What blood sample?” Underhill asked.
“From the sidewalk.”
“Oh, yeah,” Underhill said. He had completely forgotten his request until just this moment. He had, in fact, forgotten it almost the instant after he’d called the lab last night. Now here was Grossman with a report. He did not know what he would do with the report, since there’d been no word from any of the city’s hospitals about anyone seeking treatment for a dog bite. He picked up a pencil and said, “Okay, let me have it.”
“First of all, yes, it’s blood,” Grossman said, “and secondly, yes, it’s human blood.”
“What group?” Underhill asked.
“You might be lucky. It’s group B.”
“How does that make me lucky?”
“You’d be luckier if it was group AB because only three to six percent of the population falls into that group. As it is, your sample falls into the ten-to-fifteen-percent grouping.”
“That makes me lucky, huh?”
“It could’ve been O or A, which are the most common groups.”
“Okay, thanks a lot,” Underhill said.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“Not unless you know somebody got bit by a dog.”
“Was this a dog-bite victim?”
“Yeah.”
“The dog wasn’t rabid, was he?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Guy told the investigating patrolman.”
“Because if he’s rabid...”
“No, no, he’s a seeing-eye dog, how could he be rabid?”
“Seeing-eye dogs can be rabid,” Grossman said. “Same as any other dog.”
“Yeah, but this one had his shots.”
“Who’d he bite?”
“We don’t know. Somebody who tried to assault his owner.”
“What do you mean?” Grossman said.
“Somebody tried to assault the owner, and the dog bit him.”
“A blind man?”
“Yeah, the dog’s owner. He’s a seeing-eye dog, isn’t he? So naturally the owner’s—”
“Is this something you’re working with Carella?” Grossman asked.
“No,” Underhill said. “Who’s Carella?”
“Of the Eight-Seven.”
“No, I don’t know him.”
“Because he’s working some homicides involving blind victims.”
“This isn’t a homicide,” Underhill said. “This isn’t even an assault, you want to know. Guy tried to attack a blind man, and the dog bit him.”
“Where?”
“Where’d he bite him? We don’t know.”
“I mean, where did the attack take place?”
“Cherry and Laird.”
“All the way down there, huh?”
“Yeah. Well, I got work here, thanks a lot, huh?” Underhill said and hung up.
Grossman put the receiver back on the cradle, thought for a moment about the odds against Underhill’s case being related to Carella’s, and decided to call the Eight-Seven, anyway.
Genero answered the squadroom phone.
“87th Squad, Detective Genero,” he said. He always made sure he gave his title. Every other detective on the squad merely gave a last name; Genero gave any caller the full treatment.
“This is Sam Grossman at the lab,” Grossman said. “I’d like to talk to Carella.”
“Not here,” Genero said.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know,” Genero said.
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Nope,” Genero said.
“Who’s working the blind-man case with him, would you know?”
“Meyer, I think.”
“Is he there?”
Genero looked around the squadroom. “No, I don’t see him.”
“Well, ask either one of them to call me back as soon as possible, would you?”
“Will do,” Genero said.
“In fact, let me talk to the lieutenant.”
“I’ll have the desk sergeant transfer you,” Genero said. He jiggled the receiver bar, and when Murchison came on the line, he said, “Dave, put this through to the lieutenant’s office, will you?”
Grossman waited. For a moment he thought he’d been cut off.
“87th Squad, Byrnes.”
“Pete, this is Sam Grossman at the lab.”
“Yes, Sam, how are you?”
“Fine. I’ve just been talking to a detective named George Underhill at the Four-One, he’s working a case with a blind victim.”
“A homicide?”
“Attempted assault. I have no idea whether this is related to Steve’s case or not, but it might be worth contacting Underhill.”
“Right, I’ll pass it along to Steve.”
“The perpetrator was bitten by the victim’s dog,” Grossman said. “You might want to put a hospital-stop on it right away.”
“Didn’t Underhill do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll put somebody on it,” Byrnes said. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Don’t mention it,” Grossman said, and hung up.
Byrnes put up the phone and went out into the squad-room. Genero was staring at a pair of pale blue bikini panties on his desk. Byrnes said, “What are you doing with those panties, Genero?”
“They’re evidence,” Genero said.
“Of what?”