“Mobile.”
“Emergency,” he said. “Ten-twenty-four, two men with gunshot wounds on the sidewalk at Culver and South Eleventh.”
“Got it, Frank.”
The radio frequency used by the Mobile Unit Dispatcher and every radio motor patrol car in Isola was not the same one used by the Emergency Dispatcher. In the Adam Two van, the driver and his partner would be monitoring both frequencies, but the men in the separate r.m.p. cars would be tuned only to the Mobile Unit band. The dispatcher knew the whereabouts of every r.m.p. car in Isola; there were four other dispatchers on the floor, separately controlling the cars in Riverhead, Calm’s Point, Bethtown, and Majesta. The Isola dispatcher knew that Culver and South Eleventh was in the 87th Precinct. He further knew that Boy car up there had responded to a 10–13 — an Assist Police Officer — not three minutes earlier, leaving its normal sector to join Adam car at Culver and South Third. Charlie car had just responded to a 10–10 — a Suspicious Person call — and had radioed back with a 10–90 — Unfounded. Into the mike, the dispatcher said, “Eight-Seven Charlie, ten-twenty-four, two men with gunshot wounds on the sidewalk at Culver and South Eleventh.”
The man riding shotgun in the Charlie car was undoubtedly new on the job. He said at once, and with obvious excitement, “Ten-thirrty-four, did you say?”
“Twenty-four, twenty-four,” the dispatcher said impatiently, distinguishing for the rookie a past crime from a crime in progress.
“Ten-four,” the rookie said, acknowledging. He sounded disappointed.
Five minutes later, in response to a police call box report from Charlie car to the station house, Detectives Steve Carella and Meyer Meyer of the 87th Precinct arrived at the scene. Five minutes after that, Detectives Monoghan and Monroe of the Homicide Division were standing on the pavement looking down at the dead man in the yellow shirt and the red pants.
“Must be some kind of musician,” Monoghan said.
“A guitar player,” Monroe said.
“Yeah, that’s a guitar case,” Monoghan said.
“Did a nice job on his head there,” Monroe said.
“Those’re his brains you’re looking at,” Monoghan said.
“Don’t I know brains when I see them?”
“What’s the other guy’s condition?”
He addressed this question to Carella, who was staring silently at the corpse. There was a pained expression on Carella’s face. His eyes — faintly Oriental, slanting downward — seemed to exaggerate the look of grief, presenting a false image of someone who might suddenly burst into tears. A tall, athletically slender white man, he stood in the rain with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the corpse. Near the doorway behind him, the man from the Photo Unit snapped his Polaroids, his strobe flash blinking like a distant star. In the hallway, one of the lab technicians was searching for spent cartridge cases.
“Carella? You hear me?” Monoghan said.
“Meat wagon took him away before we got here,” Carella said. “Patrolman in Charlie car said he was bleeding front and back.”
“But still alive, huh?”
“Still alive,” Carella said, and looked again at the dead man.
“Hey, Petie, you finished with the stiff here?” Monoghan called to the photographer.
“Yeah, I got all I need,” the photographer answered.
“Did you toss him yet?” Monoghan asked Carella, gesturing toward the dead man.
“I was about to when you got here.”
“Don’t get his brains all over you,” Monroe said.
Carella knelt beside the corpse. In the right-hand pocket at the rear of his trousers — the sucker pocket, the one any pick-pocket could slash undetected — Carella found a brown leather wallet with a driver’s license that identified the dead man as George C. Chadderton. His address was given as 1137 Raucher Street, uptown in Diamondback. The license gave his height as six feet four inches, his sex as M for Male, and a date of birth that would have made him thirty years old on the tenth of November — if he’d lived that long. The license also indicated that it was valid only if the bearer wore corrective lenses while driving. George C. Chadderton, lying on the pavement dead, was not wearing eyeglasses, unless they were contacts.
Behind the license was a Lucite-sealed card stating that he was a member in good standing of the local chapter of the American Federation of Musicians — corroboration of the identification, not that any was needed. There was no registration for a motor vehicle in the wallet, but this meant nothing; most motorists kept their registration in the glove compartments of their cars. In the section for cash, Carella found three $100 bills, a five, and two singles. The $100 bills bothered him. They did not seem like the denominations a man would be carrying in this neighborhood — unless he were a pusher or a pimp. Or had Chadderton been heading home after a gig? Still, $300 seemed like more than any guitar player could reasonably earn in a single night. Was this his pay for a week’s work? He rolled the man over on his hip, and reached into the left rear pocket. Only a soiled handkerchief was in it.
“Don’t get snot on your hands,” Monroe said cheerfully.
The rain drilled the sidewalk. Carella, hatless and wearing a tan trench coat, was flanked by the two Homicide men, who stood like bulky bookends on either side of him, both of them dressed in black raincoats, both wearing black fedoras. Their hands were in their pockets. They watched Carella with something less than interest but more than curiosity. In this city, a homicide was investigated by the precinct detective catching the squeal. Homicide detectives responded as a matter of course, and the later paperwork would be routinely delivered to them. But they were spectators, in effect. Or perhaps referees. Carella, hunched and squatting in the rain, emptied the dead man’s right-hand side pocket. Chadderton was carrying six keys on a ring, none of them car keys, 67¢ in change, and a subway token. The subway kiosk for the Culver Avenue line was only two blocks away. Had he been slain on his way to the subway? Or had he and the other man been walking toward a car parked somewhere in the neighborhood?
“What’s his name?” Monoghan asked.
“George Chadderton.”
“Nice,” Monroe said, almost to himself.
“Is the ME on his way?” Monoghan asked.
“He should be,” Carella said. “We notified him.”
“Who said you didn’t?” Monoghan said.
“What’s the matter with you tonight, anyway?” Monroe asked. “You seem depressed.”
Carella did not answer him. He was busy bagging and marking the things he’d taken from the dead man’s pockets.
“Rain got you depressed, Carella?” Monoghan asked.
Carella still said nothing.
Monroe nodded. “Rain can depress a man,” he said.
“So how come we don’t get umbrellas?” Monoghan asked suddenly. “Did you notice that?”
“Huh?” Monroe said.
“You ever see a cop with an umbrella? I never seen a cop with an umbrella in my entire life.”