“Me neither,” Monroe said.
“So how come?” Monoghan asked.
“Don’t let the rain depress you,” Monroe said to Carella.
“Look what it done to Chadderton here,” Monoghan said.
“Huh?” Monroe said.
“Walkin around with the top of his head open like that, rain killed the man,” Monoghan said, and began laughing.
Monroe laughed with him. Carella walked to where the lab technician was still working in the hallway. He handed him the dead man’s belongings.
“His pockets,” he said. “Find anything?”
“Nothing yet. How many shots were fired, do you know?”
“Meyer’s talking to one of the witnesses now. You want to listen?”
“What for?” the technician said.
“Find out how many shots were fired.”
“It’s raining out there,” the technician said. “I can find out how many shots were fired right in here, if I locate any casings.”
Meyer and the witness were standing under the open awning of a bakery shop. The shop’s windows were grilled for the night. The man Meyer was talking to was a thin light-skinned Puerto Rican. The neighborhood here was a mixture of Hispanic and black, the Puerto Ricans along Mason Avenue spilling over onto Culver in the past several years, the friction constant. Carella caught only the tail end of the man’s sentence. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent.
“...to may dee call,” he said.
“Do you know who made it then?”
“Nobody wanns to may it,” the man said. “We don’t wann to geh involve, comprende?”
“Yes, but who finally called the police?”
“Some black guy, I don’t know who.”
“Where were you when you heard the shots?” Meyer said.
He was a tall burly white man with china blue eyes, wearing a Burberry raincoat and a checked Professor Higgins hat that made him look more like an inspector from Scotland Yard than a detective from right here in the Eight-Seven. The hat was a new acquisition. It hid the fact that he was totally bald. The hat was wet now, somewhat shapeless. Above his head, the awning dripped a fringe of rain onto the sidewalk. He waited for the witness’s response. The man seemed to be thinking it over.
“Well?” Meyer said.
“We were juss hangin aroun dee pool hall,” he said, and shrugged.
“How many of you?”
“Fi’ or six, I’m not sure.”
“Then what?”
“We herr dee shots.”
“How many shots?”
“Quién sabe? Plenty.”
“Then what?”
“We come runnin.”
“See anybody with a gun?”
“We see a man run away. Tall man, all dress in black.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“Tall. Skinny, too. All in black. Black coat, black hat, black shoes.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, I dinn see his face.”
“Was he white or black?”
“I dinn see his face.”
“Did you see his hands?”
“No, he wass run away.”
“How tall would you say he was?”
“Fi’ nine, fi’ ten, someting like dat.”
“How much would you guess he weighed?”
“He wass skinny. Like a boy, you know.”
“You said a man.”
“Sí, but skinny like a boy. Como un adolescente, comprende?”
“I don’t know what that means. What’s that in English?”
“Él parecia tener diecinueve años.”
“Anybody here speak Spanish?” Meyer yelled.
A patrolman in a black rubberized rain slicker came to where they were standing. The plastic nameplate pinned under his shield identified him as R. SERRANO. “Help you?” he said.
“Ask this guy what he just said.”
“Qué le acabas de decir al detective?” the patrolman said.
“Que el hombre que se iba corriendo parecía un adolescente.”
“What’d he say?” Meyer asked.
“He said the guy who split looked like a teenager.”
“Okay, thanks,” Meyer said. “Tell him thanks. Gracias,” he said, telling the man himself. “Tell him he can go now. Tell him we’re finished with him. Gracias,” he said again, and turned to Carella. The patrolman was busily translating to the witness. The witness seemed reluctant to leave. Now that he’d been interrogated by the police, he seemed to consider himself a star. He was clearly disappointed when the patrolman told him he could go. He started an argument with the patrolman. In English, the patrolman told him to get lost, and then went back to stand in the rain where the police barricades had been set up. The cardboard CRIME SCENE — DO NOT ENTER signs tacked to the barricades were beginning to wilt in the steady downpour.
“You heard it, Steve,” Meyer said. “Tall skinny teenager.”
“How many tall skinny teen-agers in this city, would you guess?”
“Jesus, I didn’t get that guy’s name! Hey!” Meyer yelled. “Hey, you! Wait a minute!”
The witness, reluctant to leave not a moment before, now heard himself being called with some urgency. He did what anyone in his right mind would have done. He began running. The Puerto Rican cop who’d translated for Meyer began chasing him. He rounded the corner, slipping and almost falling on the wet pavement. The rain was coming down harder now. The lightning and thunder had passed; there was only the steady drilling rain. Monoghan and Monroe came over to stand under the awning.
“Where’s the goddamn ME?” Monoghan said.
“Don’t he know it’s rainin?” Monroe said.
“You need us here any longer?” Monoghan said.
“We still need a cause of death,” Carella said.
“Big mystery, that’s gonna be,” Monoghan said. “Guy’s head is all blown away, whattya think the ME’s gonna say killed him? A flowerpot fallin from a windowsill?”
“Maybe the rain,” Monroe said, remembering, laughing again. “Maybe it rained in on him, like you said.”
“I’d appreciate it if you waited till the ME got here,” Carella said quietly.
The patrolman who’d run after the witness came back around the corner, panting. He walked to where the men were standing under the dripping awning. “I lost him,” he said.
Monoghan looked at his nameplate. “Good work, Serrano,” he said. “A promotion is in order.”
“What’s your captain’s name?” Monroe asked. “We’ll put in a commendation.”
“Frick,” the patrolman said. “Captain Frick.” He looked worried.
“Captain Frick, remember that,” Monoghan said.
“Got it,” Monroe said.
“We want to get over to the hospital,” Meyer said, “talk to the other victim. Can you wrap this for us here?”
“What, in the rain?” Monoghan said.
“You can stay under the awning,” Meyer said.
“Here’s the ME now,” Carella said, and walked out into the rain toward the curb, where a black car marked with the city’s seal was pulling in at an angle to one of the RMP cars.
“How nearly done are the rest of them?” Monoghan asked.
“Photo is about to leave,” Meyer said. “I don’t know how long the techs’ll be. They’ll want to mark the position of the body...”
“How about your sketches? Have you made your sketches yet?”
“No, but...”
“Then why the hell are you planning to leave the scene?”
“Because the other guy may die before we get to him,” Meyer said patiently.
“You’re a team, ain’t you?” Monoghan said.
“A pair,” Monroe said.