At 2:11 or thereabouts in the morning, nobody feels much like working.
Oh sure, a corpse breaks up the dull monotony of the midnight tour; and it's nice to renew acquaintances with old friends from Homicide South; and maybe the photographer has a few choice samples of French postcard art to pass around; but all in all, nobody has much heartfelt enthusiasm for a suicide at 2:11. Especially when it's cold.
There was no questioning the fact that it was cold.
The dicks from Homicide South looked as if someone had pulled them from the freezer compartment a few moments before. They walked stiff-legged to the sidewalk, their hands thrust into their coat pockets, their heads bent, their fedoras pulled low over their faces. One lifted his head long enough to say hello to Carella, and then they both followed him and Kling into the basement room.
"Little better down here," the first cop said. He rubbed his hands together, glanced over at the body, and then said, "I don't suppose anybody has a flask with him?" He looked at the faces of the other cops. "No, I didn't suppose so," he said sourly.
"Patrolman named Dick Genero discovered the body at about 2:04," Carella said. "The light was burning, and nothing's been touched."
The first Homicide cop grunted, and then sighed. "Well, better get to work, huh?" he asked with eager enthusiasm.
The second Homicide cop looked at the body. "Stupid," he mumbled. "Why didn't he wait until morning?" He glanced at Kling. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Bert Kling," Kling said, and then—as if the question had been burning his throat since he'd first seen the body —he asked, "I thought the body had to be swinging free in a hanging suicide."
The Homicide cop stared at Kling, and then turned to Carella. "Is this guy a cop?" he asked.
"Sure," Carella said.
"I thought maybe you brought one of your relatives along for a thrill." He turned back to Kling. "No, son," he said, "the body don't have to be swinging free. You want proof?" He pointed to the cot. "There's a hanging suicide, and the body ain't swinging free, now, is it?"
"Well, no, it isn't."
"You're quite a whiz," Carella said. He was not smiling. He caught the Homicide cop's eyes and held them.
"I get by," the Homicide cop said. "I ain't from the crackjack 87th Precinct, but I been on the force twenty-two years now, and I've broken up a few ticktack-toe games in my time."
There was no irony or sarcasm in Carella's voice when he answered. He played it deadpan, apparently serious. "Men like you are a credit to the force," he said.
The Homicide cop eyed Carella warily. "I was only trying to explain…"
"Sure," Carella said. "Stupid kid here doesn't realize the body doesn't have to swinging free. Why, Bert, we've found them standing, sitting, and lying." He turned to the Homicide cop. "Isn't that right?"
"Sure, all positions."
"Sure," Carella agreed. "A suicide doesn't have to look like one." A barely concealed hardness had crept into his voice, and Kling frowned and then glanced somewhat apprehensively toward the Homicide dicks. "What do you think of the color?" Carella asked.
The dick who'd blown his top at Carella approached him cautiously. "What?" he asked.
"The blue. Interesting, isn't it?"
"Cut off the air, you get a blue body," the Homicide cop answered. "Simple as all that."
"Sure," Carella said, the hardness more apparent in his voice now. "Very simple. Tell the kid about side knots."
"What?"
"The knot on the rope. It's on the side of the boy's neck."
The Homicide cop walked over and looked at the body. "So what?" he asked.
"I just thought a hanging-suicide expert like yourself might have noticed it," Carella said, the hardness in his voice completely unmasked now.
"Yeah, I noticed it. So what?"
"I thought you might want to explain to a new detective like the kid here the coloration we sometimes get in hangings."
"Look, Carella," the other Homicide cop started.
"Let your pal talk, Fred," Carella interrupted. "We don't want to miss the testimony of an expert."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"He's needling you, Joe," Fred said.
Joe turned to Carella. "You needling me?"
"I wouldn't know how," Carella said. "Explain the knot, expert."
Joe blinked. "Knot, knot, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Why, surely you know," Carella said sweetly, "that a side knot will completely compress the arteries and veins on one side of the neck only."
"Sure, I know that," Joe said.
"And you know, of course, that the face will usually be red when the knot's been tied at the side of the neck—as opposed to the face being pale when the knot's tied at the nape. You know that, don't you?"
"Sure, I know that," Joe said arrogantly. "And we've had them turn blue in both side-knot and nape-knot cases, so what the hell are you telling me? I've had a dozen blue strangle cases."
"How many dozen blue cyanide-poisoning cases have you had?"
"Huh?"
"How do you know the cause of death was asphyxiation?"
"Huh?"
"Did you see those burnt bottle caps on the orange crate? Did you see the syringe next to the boy's hand?"
"Sure, I did."
"Do you think he's a junkie?"
"I guess he is. It would be my guess that he is," Joe said. He paused and made a concerted effort at sarcasm. "What do the masterminds of the 87th think?"
"I would guess he's an addict," Carella said, "judging from the 'hit' marks on his arms."
"I saw his arms, too," Joe said. He searched within the labyrinthine confines of his intelligence for something further to say, but the something eluded him.
"Do you suppose the kid shot up before he hanged himself?" Carella asked sweetly.
"He might have," Joe said judiciously.
"Be a little confusing if he did, wouldn't it?" Carella asked.
"How so?" Joe said, rushing in where angels might have exercised a bit of caution.
"If he'd just had a fix, he'd be pretty happy. I wonder why he'd take his own life."
"Some junkies get morose," Fred said. "Listen, Carella, lay off. What the hell are you trying to prove, anyway?"
"Only that the masterminds of the 87th don't go yelling suicide until we've seen an autopsy report—and maybe not even then. How about that, Joe? Or do all blue bodies automatically mean strangulation?"
"You got to weigh the facts," Joe said. "You got to put them all together."
"There's a shrewd observation on the art of detection, Bert," Carella said. "Mark it well."
"Where the hell are the photographers?" Fred said, tired of the banter. "I want to get started on the body, find out who the hell the kid is, at least."
"He's in no hurry," Carella said.
Chapter Three
The boy's name was Aníbal Hernandez. The kids who weren't Puerto Rican called him Annabelle. His mother called him Aníbal, and she pronounced the name with Spanish grandeur, but the grandeur was limp with grief.
Carella and Kling had trekked the five flights to the top floor of the tenement and knocked on the door of apartment fifty-five. She had opened the door quickly, as if knowing that visitors would soon be calling. She was a big woman with ample breasts and straight black hair. She wore a simple dress, and there was no make-up on her face, and her cheeks were streaked with tears.
"Police?" she asked.
"Yes," Carella said.
"Come in, por favor. Please."
The apartment was very still. Nothing broke the silence, not even the sullen sounds of sleep. A small light burned in the kitchen.
"Come," Mrs. Hernandez said. "In the parlor."
They followed her, and she turned on a floor lamp in the small living room. The apartment was very clean, but the ceiling plaster was cracked and ready to fall, and the radiator had leaked a big puddle onto the scrubbed linoleum of the floor. The detectives sat facing Mrs. Hernandez.