“How could they be so dumb?” Morgenstern asked on the phone, though in all fairness the detectives who’d caught the squeal downtown hadn’t learned that the victim was stage-managing the same play the slain actress had been in until a thorough search of his apartment turned up a loose-leaf binder he’d kept listing the names, addresses, telephone numbers and schedules of anyone connected with the show. That was how they got Morgenstern’s number.
“It’s getting to be a regular epidemic here,” Morgenstern told Carella.
Carella tended to agree.
A stabbing on the sixth.
A murder on the seventh.
A suicide — or what certainly looked like one — on the tenth.
The old hat trick.
The reason the detectives of the Two-One shrewdly suspected suicide was the fact that a note was in the roller of the typewriter on Chuck Madden’s desk, and the note read:
DEAR GOD, PLEASE FORGIVE ME
FOR WHAT I DID TO MICHELLE
They did not know that Michelle was Michelle Cassidy until they found her name listed in the loose-leaf binder under ACTORS. From the naked broken parts on the sidewalk, the building’s superintendent had identified “Mr. Madden in 10A,” but until they leafed through that binder, they hadn’t known that he was Mr. Charles Williams Madden, STAGE MANAGER of this play called Romance. That was when they called Marvin Morgenstern, PRODUCER.
Now Morgenstern was reporting all this to Steve Carella, DETECTIVE, even though Madden hadn’t defenestrated himself anywhere near the confines of the Eight-Seven. Carella did not envy whoever in the department would have to determine jurisdiction on this one. Meanwhile, he told Morgenstern he would go talk to the detectives downtown.
They were still at the scene when Carella and Kling got there at nine-thirty that morning of the eleventh. So were Monoghan and Monroe from the Homicide Division.
“Well, well, well.” Monoghan said. “look what the cat dragged in.”
“Well, well, well,” Monroe repeated.
The two were dressed in black, as befitted their station and calling. The weather being seasonably mild, each was wearing a tropical-weight black suit, a white pima cotton shirt, a black tie, black shoes and socks, and a rakishly tilted black fedora with a narrow snap brim. They thought they looked quite elegant. In fact, they resembled two portly morticians whose mutual bad habit was hooking thumbs into jacket pockets. They were both grinning as if pleased to see Carella and Kling.
“What brings the Eight-Seven to the scene of this morbidity?” Monoghan asked.
“This chamber of death and desolation,” Monroe said, beaming and opening his arms wide to encompass the entire apartment. At the far end of what appeared to be the living room, a technician was dusting the sill of the window through which Madden had presumably leapt to his death. The window was still open. The curtains on either side of it rustled in a mild breeze. It was a spectacularly beautiful Saturday in April.
“Who’s this?” a big, burly black man asked, and walked in from the other room. He was wearing a loud plaid sports jacket and brown slacks, and white cotton gloves. He was also in need of a shave, a sure sign that he was the cop who’d caught the squeal.
“You in charge here?” Carella asked.
“I’m in charge here,” the man said.
“No, we’re in charge here,” Monoghan said.
Carella ignored him.
“Carella,” he said, introducing himself. “Eighty-seventh Squad.”
“Oh, yeah,” the man said matter-of-factly. “I’m Biggs, the Two-One. My partner’s in the bedroom.” Neither of them offered his hand. Cops on the job rarely shook hands, perhaps because none of them was hiding a dagger up his sleeve. “I figured you’d be turning up sooner or later. The possible connection,” he said.
“What connection?” Monroe asked.
“There’s a connection?” Monoghan asked.
“To what?” Monroe said.
Both of them looked suddenly perturbed, as if this possible connection, whatever it turned out to be, might mean more work for them. In this city, the appearance of homicide cops was mandatory at the scene of any murder, but the precinct detective catching the squeal always followed the case to its conclusion. Most of the time, Homicide served in a purely supervisory — some skeptics might have said superficial — capacity. Quick to find fault, quicker to take credit, the cops from Homicide were not particularly adored by other members of the force, least of all those who were on the front lines of any investigation. Biggs’s distaste showed on his round open face. Carella’s expression ran a close second. Kling simply walked away.
“Michelle Cassidy,” Carella said.
“The actress who’s been all over television,” Biggs said, figuring he’d shove a hot poker up their asses.
“This is connected to that?” Monroe said.
“That is connected to this?” Monoghan said.
“Just a possible connection,” Biggs said. “You see this note, Carella?”
They all moved to where the typewriter sat on a desk facing the same window through which Madden had presumably jumped. Except for Kling — who was in the bedroom now, talking to Biggs’s partner, another black man — they all leaned over the typewriter to look at the note:
DEAR GOD, PLEASE FORGIVE ME
FOR WHAT I DID TO MICHELLE
“Just what he said it said,” Carella said.
“Just what who said?” Monroe asked,
“Morgenstern.”
“Who the fuck is Morgenstern?” Monoghan asked.
“I read it to him on the phone,” Biggs said.
“Who?”
“Morgenstern.”
“Why?”
“He’s the producer,” Biggs said, and shrugged. “What do we do here, Carella?” he asked. “Whose case is this?”
“I think the chain goes back to us. But let’s work it together till rank decides,” Carella suggested.
“We’re the ones decide here,” Monroe said.
“I don’t think so,” Carella said.
“Me, neither,” Biggs said.
“We’re Homicide,” Monoghan said, looking offended.
Biggs ignored him.
“You shoulda seen what he looked like on the sidewalk,” he told Carella.
“Am I the only one here just had breakfast?” Monoghan asked.
“Where’s he now?” Carella asked.
“Parkside General. What’s left of him. They had to scrape him off the sidewalk.”
“Please,” Monoghan said.
“This typewriter been dusted yet?” Monroe asked.
“No, the techs just got here a few minutes ago.”
“How about the note?”
“That neither.”
“You’ll want to get both of those to the lab,” Monoghan suggested.
“No shit,” Biggs said.
“Henry? You want to come in here a minute?”
They all turned to where Biggs’s partner was standing in the doorway with Kling. He was wearing jeans, loafers, a blue cotton turtleneck sweater and white cotton gloves. His name was Akir Jabeem. He introduced himself to Carella and the homicide dicks and then turned to Kling as if wondering who was going to break this to the others. Both men had obviously discussed this between them already. Kling nodded.
“We’re not sure the guy was actually living here,” Jabeem said.
“Then who was living here?” Monoghan asked. “If not him.”