“Fornication,” Genero said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Byrnes said. “Call the Department of Hospitals, put a stop out for any dog-bite victims. Ask them to refer back to Carella of the Eight-Seven.”
“Is that what Captain Grossman wanted?”
“Yes, that’s what he wanted.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to tell Carella he called?”
“Leave a note on Carella’s desk.”
“Meyer’s, too?”
“Meyer’s, too.”
“Shall I call the Department of Hospitals first?”
“If you think you can handle three things in a row without forgetting any of them.”
“Oh, sure,” Genero said.
The supreme court magistrate read Carella’s affidavit, and then said, “What is it you want in that safety deposit box, Detective Carella? It doesn’t say what you want.”
“That’s because I don’t know what’s in it, your Honor,” Carella said.
“Then how can you expect me to sign an order commanding you to open it?”
“Your Honor,” Carella said, “as you’ll note in the affidavit, this is a homicide I’m investigating, and I have reason to believe that whatever the murderer was searching for in the apartment of two of the victims—”
“Yes, yes, that’s all here.”
“Might be in the box, your Honor, and might constitute evidence of the crime of murder.”
“But you don’t know what you’re looking for specifically,” the magistrate said.
“No, your Honor, I do not.”
“Do you have any personal knowledge of the existence of such evidence?”
“Only knowledge based on the fact that the murderer thoroughly searched the apartment for something, your Honor, as stated in the affidavit.”
“That is not personal knowledge of evidence in the box,” the magistrate said.
“Your Honor, I don’t think this would constitute an illegal search, any more than going through a victim’s dresser drawers would constitute an illegal search at the scene of the murder.”
“This is not the scene of a murder.”
“I realize that, your Honor. But I’ve had a court order, for example, to open a safety deposit box when all I was investigating was a numbers operation, a policy operation, your Honor, and this is a homicide.”
“In this other case, did you have personal knowledge of what you would find in the box when it was opened?”
“I had information from an informer.”
“That constitutes personal knowledge,” the magistrate said.
“Your Honor, I really would like to open that box. Three people have been killed already, all of them blind, and I think there may be something in there that can help me. There’s probable cause to believe there’s something in there, your Honor.”
“If I issued this warrant, it might do you more harm than good,” the magistrate said. “Your application might later be controverted on a motion to suppress the evidence seized under it.”
“I’d like to take that chance, your Honor,” Carella said. “Your Honor, there’s no one who can be hurt here but the killer. We’re not violating the victim’s rights by opening that box, your Honor.”
“I’ll grant the warrant,” the magistrate said.
On the way uptown Carella wondered why the judge had given him such a hard time. He guessed the hard time was worth it. He guessed that protecting the rights of one person was the same as protecting the rights of all persons. It was almost two-thirty when he got back to the squadroom. He intended stopping by only to tell Byrnes where he was going and what he was about to do. It was good to give progress reports when the lieutenant was complaining about lack of progress. Genero was sitting at his desk, looking at a pair of pale blue bikini panties.
“I put a note on your typewriter,” Genero said.
“Thanks,” Carella said, and pulled the note from the roller. It told him that Grossman had called. Grossman was spelled “Grosman.” Carella was about to call him back when Byrnes came out of his office and told him about Underhill, and the attempted assault, and the dog bite. Carella said, “Okay, good,” and filled him in on the safety deposit box and the court order, and then turned his name-plaque to the wall on the Duty Chart, and went downstairs again to where the dog was dripping spit all over the back seat. He tried to remember the dog’s name, but couldn’t. Nobody’s perfect.
The manager of the First Federal on Yates Avenue was a black man named Samuel Hobbs. He welcomed Carella into his office, shook hands with him, and then studied the court order with a solemnity befitting a command for a royal beheading. Carella extended the Mosler key to him. Hobbs pressed a button on the base of his phone. A black girl in her early twenties came into the office, and Hobbs asked her to locate the box number of James Randolph Harris and then escort Detective Carella to the vault and open the box for him. Carella followed her. She had long slender legs and a twitchy behind. She found the number of the box in a card file, and then led him into the vault. She smiled at him a lot; he was beginning to think he was devastating.
She opened the box drawer and pulled out the box. She asked him if he wanted a room. He said he wanted a room, and she carried the box to a cubicle with a louvered door, which he locked behind him. There was a pair of scissors on the wall-hung desk top, for the convenience of those customers clipping coupons. He lifted the lid of the box. There was only one thing in the box, a carbon copy of a typewritten letter. He looked at the letter. It was addressed to Major John Francis Tataglia at Fort Lee, Virginia. The letter was dated November sixth. It read:
November 6th
Hello, Major Tataglia:
I have decided that I want some money for my eyes. I was at the reunion of D Company in August, and I learned there that every one of the grunts is as pisspoor as me, so there' s no sense asking them for any help. I talked to Captain Anderson who used to command the 1st Platoon, and he told me you're a major now stationed at Fort Lee, which is where I'm writing to you- Major, I want some money from you. I want some money for my eyes- I want one thousand dollars a month from you, for the rest of my life, or I am going to write to the Army and tell them what happened to Lieutenant Blake- I am going to tell them you and the others killed Lieutenant Blake. I don't give a shit about you or any of them. The others can't help me cause they're as broke as I am, but you are a career officer and you can send me money Maj or. I want the money right away, Major. I am going to give you till the end of the month, and if the first check for one thousand dollars isn't here by then, I will call the United States Army and tell them what happened during Ala Moana. You may think I can't prove nothing, Major, but that doesn’t matter. I am a blind veteran with a full disability pension, and Maj or I don’t have to tell you what kind of heavy shit can come down on you if an army investigation starts about what happened that day. You were the one stuck the first bayonet in him, Maj or, and if they call the other men they are going to have to say you did it all by yourself, or else they are going to have to admit they were all a part of it. None of them is in the Army no more, only you. You are in trouble, Major, if you don't send me the money. There is a copy of this letter, so if anything happens to me my wife will know about it, and you will be in even more serious trouble than you already are. So send me a check for one thousand dollars by the first of December, and keep sending me checks on the first day of each month or your ass will be in a sling. Send the checks made payable to James R. Harris, and send them to me at 3415 South Seventh Street, Isola.
I will not wait past December 1.
Your old Army buddy,