“Bad failing for a psychologist.”
“I’m not a psychologist yet I’m going for my master's at night.”
“The girl outside told me you’re assistant to the company—”
“Yes, I am. But I haven’t yet taken my boards.”
“Are you allowed to practice?”
“According to the law in this state—I thought you just might be familiar with it, Mr. Kling—no one can be licensed to—”
“No, I’m not.”
“Obviously. No one can be licensed to practice psychology until he has a master's degree and a PhD, and has passed the state boards. I’m not practicing. All I do is conduct interviews and sometimes administer tests.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that,” Kling said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Kling said, and shrugged.
“Look, Mr. Kling, if you stay here a minute longer, we’re going to pick up right where we left off. And as I recall it, the last time I saw you, I told you to drop dead.”
“That's right.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Can’t,” Kling said. “This is my case.” He smiled pleasantly, sat in the chair beside her desk, made himself comfortable, and very sweetly said, “Do you want to tell me what happened here yesterday, Miss Forrest?”
When Carella got to the squadroom at 10:30 that morning, Meyer was already there, and a note on his desk told him that a man named Charles Mercer at the police laboratory had called at 7:45 A.M.
“Did you call him back?” Carella asked.
“I just got in a minute ago.”
“Let's hope he came up with something,” Carella said, and dialed the lab. He asked for Charles Mercer and was told that Mercer had worked the graveyard shift and had gone home at 8:00.
“Who's this?” Carella asked.
“Danny Di Tore.”
“Would you know anything about the tests Mercer ran for us? On some gelatin capsules?”
“Yeah, sure,” Di Tore said. “Just a minute. That was some job you gave Charlie, you know?”
“What’d he find out?”
“Well, to begin with, he had to use a lot of different capsules. They come in different thicknesses, you know. Like all the manufacturers don’t make them the same.”
“Pick up the extension, will you, Meyer?” Carella said, and then into the phone, “Go ahead, Di Tore.”
“And also, there’re a lot of things that can affect the dissolving speed. Like if a man just ate, his stomach is full and the capsule won’t dissolve as fast. If the stomach's empty, you get a speedier dissolving rate.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“It's even possible for one of these capsules to pass right through the system without dissolving at all. That happens with older people sometimes.”
“But Mercer ran the tests,” Carella said.
“Yeah, sure. He mixed a batch of five-percent-solution hydrochloric acid, with a little pepsin. To simulate the gastric juices, you know? He poured that into a lot of separate containers and then dropped the capsules in.”
“What’d he come up with?”
“Well, let me tell you what he did. He used different brands, you see, and also different sizes. They come in different sizes, you know, the higher the number, the smaller the size. Like a four is smaller than a three, don’t ask me.”
“And what’d he find out?”
“They dissolve at different rates of speed, ten minutes, four minutes, eight minutes, twelve minutes. The highest was fifteen minutes, the lowest three minutes. That's a lot of help, huh?”
“Well, it's not exactly what I—”
“But most of them took an average of about six minutes to dissolve. That gives you something to fool around with.”
“Six minutes, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot, Di Tore. And thank Mercer, will you?”
“Don’t mention it. It kept him awake.”
Carella replaced the phone on its cradle and turned to Meyer.
“So what do you think?”
“What am I, a straight man? What else can I think? Whether Gifford drank it, or swallowed it, it had to be just before he went on.”
“Had to be. The poison works within minutes, and the capsule takes approximately six minutes to dissolve. He was on for seven.”
“Seven minutes and seventeen seconds,” Meyer corrected.
“You think he took it knowingly?”
“Suicide?”
“Could be.”
“In front of forty million people?”
“Why not? There's nothing an actor likes better than a spectacular exit.”
“Well, maybe,” Meyer said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“We’d better find out who was with him just before he went on.”
“That should be very simple,” Meyer said. “Only two hundred twelve people were there last night.”
“Let's call your Mr. Krantz. Maybe he’ll be able to help us.”
Carella dialed Krantz's office and asked to talk to him. The switchboard connected him with a receptionist, who in turn connected him with Krantz's secretary, who told him that Krantz was out, would he care to leave a message? Carella asked her to wait a moment, and then covered the mouthpiece.
“Are we going out to see Gifford's wife?” he asked Meyer.
“I think we’d better,” Meyer said.
“Please tell Mr. Krantz that he can reach me at Mr. Gifford's home, will you?” Carella said, and then he thanked her and hung up.
Larksview was perhaps a half hour outside the city, an exclusive suburb that miraculously managed to provide its homeowners with something more than the conventional sixty-by-a-hundred plots. In a time of encroaching land development, it was pleasant and reassuring to enter a community of wide rolling lawns, of majestic houses set far back from quiet winding roads. Detective Meyer Meyer had made the trip to Larksview the night before, when he felt it necessary to explain to Melanie Gifford why the police wanted to do an autopsy, even though her permission was not needed. But now, patiently and uncomplainingly, he made the drive again, seeing the community in daylight for the first time, somehow soothed by its well-ordered, gentle terrain. Carella had been speculating wildly from the moment they left the city, but he was silent now as they pulled up in front of a pair of stone pillars set on either side of a white gravel driveway. A half-dozen men with cameras and another half-dozen with pads and pencils were shouting at the two Larksview patrolmen who stood blocking the drive. Meyer rolled down the window on his side of the car and shouted, “Break it up there! We want to get through.”
One of the patrolmen moved away from the knot of newspapermen and walked over to the car. “Who are you, Mac?” he said to Meyer, and Meyer showed him his shield.
“87th Precinct, huh?” the patrolman said. “You handling this case?”
“That's right,” Meyer said.
“Then why don’t you send some of your own boys out on this driveway detail?”
“What's the matter?” Carella said, leaning over. “Can’t you handle a couple of reporters?”
“A couple? You shoulda seen this ten minutes ago. The crowd's beginning to thin out a little now.”
“Can we get through?” Meyer asked.
“Yeah, sure, go ahead. Just run right over them. We’ll sweep up later.”
Meyer honked the horn, and then stepped on the gas pedal. The newspapermen pulled aside hastily, cursing at the sedan as its tires crunched over the gravel.
“Nice fellas,” Meyer said. “You’d think they’d leave the poor woman alone.”
“The way we’re doing, huh?” Carella said.