The team consisted of Detectives Steve Carella., Meyer Meyer, Cotton Hawes., and Bert Kling. Two detectives from Homicide South had put in a brief appearance to legitimize the action, and then went home to sleep, knowing full well that the investigation of a homicide is always left to the precinct discovering the stiff. The team stood around Finch in a loose semicircle. This wasn’t a movie sound stage, so there wasn’t a bright light shining in Finch’s eyes, nor did any of the cops lay a finger on him. These days, there were too many smart-assed lawyers around who were ready and able to leap upon irregular interrogation methods when and if a case finally came to trial. The detectives simply stood around Finch in a loose, relaxed semicircle, and their only weapons were a thorough familiarity with the interrogation process and with each other, and the mathematical superiority of four minds pitted against one.
“What time did you leave the apartment?” Hawes asked.
“Around seven.”
“And what time did you return?” Kling asked.
“Nine, nine-thirty. Something like that.”
“Where’d you go?” Carella asked.
“I had to see somebody.”
“A rabbi?” Meyer asked.
“No.”
“Who?”
“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”
“You’re in plenty of trouble yourself,” Hawes said. “Where’d you go?”
“No place.”
“Okay, suit yourself,” Carella said. “You’ve been shooting your mouth off about killing Jews, haven’t you?”
“I never said anything like that.”
“Where’d you get these pamphlets?”
“I found them.”
“You agree with what they say?”
“Yes.”
“You know where the synagogue in this neighborhood is?”
“Yes.”
“Were you anywhere near it tonight between seven and nine?”
“No.”
“Then where were you?”
“No place.”
“Anybody see you there?” Kling asked.
“See me where?”
“The no place you went to.”
“Nobody saw me.”
“You went no place,” Hawes said, “and nobody saw you. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“The invisible man,” Kling said.
“That’s right.”
“When you get around to killing all these Jews,” Carella said, “how do you plan to do it?”
“I don’t plan to kill anybody,” he said defensively.
“Who you gonna start with?”
“Nobody.”
“Ben-Gurion?”
“Nobody.”
“Or maybe you’ve already started.”
“I didn’t kill anybody, and I’m not gonna kill anybody. I want to call a lawyer.”
“A Jewish lawyer?”
“I wouldn’t have—”
“What wouldn’t you have?”
“Nothing.”
“You like Jews?”
“No.”
“You hate them?’
“No.”
“Then you like them.’
“No, I didn’t say —’
“You either like them or you hate them. Which?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business!”
“But you agree with the crap in those hate pamphlets., don’t you?”
“They’re not hate pamphlets.”
“What do you call them?”
“Expressions of opinion.”
“Whose opinions?”
“Everybody’s opinion!”
“Yours included?”
“Yes, mine included!”
“Do you know Rabbi Solomon?”
“No.”
“What do you think of rabbis in general?”
“I never think of rabbis.”
“But you think of Jews a lot, don’t you?”
“There’s no crime about think—”
“If you think of Jews you must think of rabbis. Isn’t that right?”
“Why should I waste my time —”
“The rabbi is the spiritual leader of the Jewish people, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know anything about rabbis.”
“But you must know that.”
“What if I do?”
“Well, if you said you were going to kill the Jews —”
“I never said —”
“— then a good place to start would be with —”
“I never said anything like that!”
“We’ve got a witness who heard you! A good place to start would be with a rabbi, isn’t that so?”
“Go shove your rabbi —”
“Where were you between seven and nine tonight?”
“No place.”
“You were behind that synagogue, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“You were painting a J on the wall, weren’t you?”
“No! No, I wasn’t!”
“You were stabbing a rabbi!”
“You were killing a Jew!”
“I wasn’t any place near that —”
“Book him, Cotton. Suspicion of murder.”
“Suspicion of — I’m telling you I wasn’t—”
“Either shut up or start talking, you bastard,” Carella said. Finch shut up.
6
The girl came to see Meyer Meyer on Easter Sunday.
She had reddish-brown hair and brown eyes, and she wore a dress of bright persimmon with a sprig of flowers pinned to the left breast. She stood at the railing and none of the detectives in the squadroom even noticed the flowers; they were too busy speculating on the depth and texture of the girl’s rich curves.
The girl didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. The effect was almost comic, akin to the cocktail-party scene where the voluptuous blonde takes out a cigarette and four hundred men are stampeded in the rush to light it. The first man to reach the slatted rail divider was Cotton Hawes, since he was single and unattached. The second man was Hal Willis, who was also single and a good red-blooded American boy. Meyer Meyer, an old married poop, contented himself with ogling the girl from behind his desk. The word shtik crossed Meyer’s mind, but he rapidly pushed the thought aside.
“Can I help you, miss?” Hawes and Willis asked simultaneously.
“I’d like to see Detective Meyer,” the girl said.
“Meyer?” Hawes asked, as if his manhood had been maligned.
“Meyer?” Willis repeated.
“Is he the man handling the murder of the rabbi?”
“Well we’re all sort of working on it,” Hawes said modestly.
“I’m Artie Finch’s girl friend,” the girl said. “I want to talk to Detective Meyer.”
Meyer rose from his desk with the air of a man who has been singled out from the stag line by the belle of the ball. Using his best radio announcer’s voice, and his best company manners, he said, “Yes, miss, I’m Detective Meyer.”
He held open the gate in the railing, all but executed a bow, and led the girl to his desk. Hawes and Kling watched as the girl sat and crossed her legs. Meyer moved a pad into place with all the aplomb of a General Motors executive.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “What was your name?”
“Eleanor,” she said. “Eleanor Fay.”
“F-A-Y-E?” Meyer asked, writing.
“F-A-Y.”
“And you’re Arthur Finch’s fiancée? Is that right?”
“I’m his girl friend,” Eleanor corrected.
“You’re not engaged?”
“Not officially, no.” She smiled demurely, modestly and sweetly. Across the room, Cotton Hawes rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“What did you want to see me about, Miss Fay?” Meyer asked.
“I wanted to see you about Arthur. He’s innocent. He didn’t kill that man.”
“I see. What do you know about it, Miss Fay?”
“Well, I read in the paper that the rabbi was killed sometime between seven-thirty and nine. I think that’s right, isn’t it?”