“There are only two things you can’t fix in this city,” someone had told Carella a long time ago, “and those two things are homicide and narcotics.”
Carella wondered about that now. If a cop will look the other way when a crap game is in progress, if he will look the other way when a citizen from downtown is upstairs banging a prostitute, if he will look the other way when someone passes a traffic light, if he will look the other way often enough, and always for a price—what will stop him from looking the other way, for a price, when a homicide has been committed?
Had Corey been ready to look the other way?
Was his price too high?
Did the murderer figure there was a simpler way to buy Corey’s silence? Forever? With no possibility of his returning with another demand?
The possibility existed.
Unfortunately there were only two people who could tell them whether or not the possibility was a valid one. The first of those people was Ralph Corey, and he was dead. The second was the killer, and they hadn’t the faintest idea who he might be.
Wednesday passed.
So did Thursday, somehow.
On Friday they buried Sergeant Ralph Corey.
Carella’s grandmother had always called Friday “a hoodoo jinx of a day.” She had not been referring to Friday the thirteenth or to any Friday in particular. She was, instead, convinced that all Fridays were very bad for human beings, and it was best to avoid them at all costs whenever possible. On Friday, January 17, the improbable happened.
On Friday, January 17, Anthony Lasser walked into the squadroom of his own volition and confessed to the murder of his father, George Lasser.
9
Questioning Tony Lasser was an ordeal neither Hawes nor Carella ever hoped to go through again in their lives, but it was an ordeal that had to be met; the man was, after all, confessing to a murder.
They interrogated him in the squadroom, sitting near the grilled windows with a January wind rattling the panes, the windows themselves rimed, the squadroom clanging with the sound of radiators. Lasser sat trembling in the chair before them. The police stenographer had a bad cold, and besides, he was bored, so he kept his eyes glued to his pad without looking up at Lasser who shivered and swallowed and seemed ready to pass out at any moment. The police stenographer sniffed.
“Why’d you kill him?” Carella said.
“I don’t know,” Lasser said.
“You must have had a reason.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“What was it?”
“I didn’t like him,” Lasser said, and he shivered again.
“Do you want to tell us what happened, exactly?” Hawes asked.
“What do you want to know?”
“When’d you get the idea to do this?”
“Last week some…some time.”
“Last week?” Hawes asked.
“No, no, did I say last week?”
“That’s what you said.”
“I meant the week I did it.”
“When was that, Mr. Lasser?”
“Before that Friday.”
“Which Friday?”
“The…the third, it was. Friday the third.”
“Go on, Mr. Lasser.”
“That was when I got the idea to kill him. That week.”
“Around New Year’s Eve, would you say?”
“Before then.”
“When? Christmas?”
“Between Christmas and New Year’s.”
“All right, Mr. Lasser, go ahead. You got the idea, then what?”
“I left the house on Friday, just after lunch.”
“But we thought you never left the house, Mr. Lasser.”
Lasser shivered uncontrollably for several moments, his teeth chattering, his hands trembling. He caught hold of himself with great effort and said, “I…I…don’t usually. This time I…I did. To k-k-k-kill him.”
“How’d you plan to kill him, Mr. Lasser?”
“What?”
“How were you going to kill your father?”
“With the ax.”
“You brought it with you, is that it?”
“No, I…I…f-f-f-found it when I got there. In the basement.”
“The ax was in the basement?”
“Yes.”
“Where in the basement?”
“Near the…furnace.”
“It wasn’t outside in the toolshed?”
“No.”
“You knew there’d be an ax there, is that it?”
“What?”
“Had you ever been to that basement before, Mr. Lasser?”
“No.”
“Then how’d you know there’d be an ax there?”
“What?”
“Mr. Lasser, how did you know there was going to be an ax in that basement?”
“Well, I…I didn’t.”
“Then how did you expect to kill your father?”
“I d-d-didn’t think it out that clearly.”
“You were just going to figure it out when you got there, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Lasser said.
“Are you getting this, Phil?” Carella asked the stenographer.
“Yop,” the stenographer said, without looking up.
“Go ahead, Mr. Lasser,” Hawes said.
“Wh-wh-what do you want me to tell you?”
“What’d you do after you killed him?”
“I…I…I…I…” He could not get past the single word. He swallowed and tried again, “I…I…I…” But he was shaking violently now, and the word was lodged in his throat. His face had gone pale, and Carella was sure he would either faint or vomit within the next few moments. Painfully he watched Lasser and wished he could help him.
“Mr. Lasser,” he said, “can I get you some coffee? Would you like something hot to drink?”
“N-n-no,” Lasser said.
“Mr. Lasser, on the day you killed your father, did you react in this way?”
“W-wh-wha…?”
“When you left the house, I mean.”
“No, I wa-wa-was all right.”
“Mr. Lasser…” Carella started.
“Mr. Lasser,” Hawes interrupted, “why are you lying to us?”
Lasser looked up suddenly and blinked and then shivered.
“Why are you telling us you killed your father when you didn’t?” Carella said.
“I did!”
“No, sir.”
“I did! Wh-what’s the matter with you? C-c-c-ca…?”
“Take it easy, Mr. Lasser.”
“Can’t you see I’m t-t-telling the truth?”
“Mr. Lasser, the man who swung that ax was powerful and deadly and accurate. You’re having trouble just staying in that chair. Now…”
“I did it,” Lasser said, and then shivered. “B-believe me. I d-d-d-did it.”
“No, Mr. Lasser,”
“Yes.”
“No. Why are you here?”
“Because I k-k-k-k-k…”
He could not say the word. They waited in painful silence while he struggled with it, and finally a shiver rattled his body and he spat out the word as though it were some loathsome creature that had been squatting malevolently on his tongue. “Killed!” he shouted. “I killed my father!”
“In that case, Mr. Lasser,” Carella said, “you won’t mind if we check your fingerprints against one we found in the basement, will you?”
Lasser was silent.
“Will you, Mr. Lasser?”
He did not answer.
“Mr. Lasser,” Hawes said gently, “why did you leave your house today?”
Lasser suddenly began sobbing. The police stenographer looked up, puzzled, and Carella signaled for him to leave. The stenographer hesitated. Carella touched his elbow and coaxed him out of the chair.
“Don’t you want me to take this down?” the stenographer asked.
“No,” Carella said. “We’ll call you if we need you.”
“Okay,” the stenographer said, and he went out of the squadroom, but he was still puzzled. In the straight-backed chair near the frost-whitened windows, Tony Lasser shivered and sobbed.