“A dress manufacturer, lives downtown in Stewart City, 17th Precinct. He brought the letter in there this morning. Captain Bundy thought we’d want to see it. Because of our involvement with the previous murders.”
“It seems to fit right in with the pattern, doesn’t it?” Hawes said. “He announced the other murders, too.”
“Yes, but there’s something missing,” Carella said.
“What?”
“The personal angle. He started this in the 87th, a little vendetta for fouling him up years ago, when he was planting bombs all over the goddamn city to divert attention from his bank job. So why’s he taking it out of the 87th all at once? If he knocks off the mayor, nobody looks foolish but the special police assigned to his protection. We’re off the hook, home free. And that’s what I can’t understand. That’s what’s wrong with the pattern.”
“The pattern seems pretty clear to me,” Byrnes said. “If he can get to JMV after advertising it, what chance will anybody have without warning? Look at how many times he says that in his letter. Without warning, without warning.”
“It still bothers me,” Carella said.
“It shouldn’t,” Byrnes said. “He’s spelled it out in black and white. The man’s a goddamn fiend.”
The instant reaction of both Hawes and Carella was to laugh. You don’t as a general rule hear cops referring to criminals as “fiends,” even when they’re child molesters and mass murderers. That’s the sort of language reserved for judges or politicians. Nor did Byrnes usually express himself in such colorful expletives. But whereas both men felt a definite impulse to laugh out loud, one look at Byrnes’ face stifled any such urge. The lieutenant was at his wit’s end. He suddenly looked very old and very tired. He sighed heavily, and said, “How do we stop him, guys?” and he sounded for all the world like a freshman quarter-back up against a varsity team with a three-hundred-pound line.
“We pray,” Carella said.
Although James Martin Vale, the mayor himself, was a devout Episcopalian, he decided that afternoon that he’d best do a lot more than pray if his family was to stay together.
So he called a top-level meeting in his office at City Hall (a meeting to which Lieutenant Byrnes was not invited), and it was decided that every precaution would be taken starting right then to keep “the deaf man” (as the men of the 87th insisted on calling him) from carrying out his threat. JMV was a man with a charming manner and a ready wit, and he managed to convince everyone in the office that he was more concerned about the people of his city than he was about his own safety. “We’ve got to save my life only so that this man won’t milk hard-earned dollars from the people of this great city,” he said. “If he gets away with this, they’ll allow themselves to be extorted. That’s why I want protection.”
“Your Honor,” the district attorney said, “if I may suggest, I think we should extend protection beyond the Friday night deadline. I think if this man succeeds in killing you anytime in the near future, the people of this city’ll think he’s made good his threat.”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” JMV said.
“Your Honor,” the city comptroller said, “I’d like to suggest that you cancel all personal appearances at least through April.”
“Well, I don’t think I should go into complete seclusion, do you?” JMV asked, mindful of the fact that this was an election year.
“Or at least curtail your personal appearances,” the comptroller said, remembering that indeed this was an election year, and remembering, too, that he was on the same ticket as His Honor the Mayor JMV.
“What do you think, Slim?” JMV asked the police commissioner.
The police commissioner, a man who was six feet four inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds, shifted his buttocks in the padded leather chair opposite His Honor’s desk, and said, “I’ll cover you with cops like fleas,” a not particularly delicate simile, but one which made its point nonetheless.
“You can count on however many men you need from my squad,” the district attorney said, mindful that two of his most trusted detectives had been blown to that big Police Academy in the sky only days before.
“I would like to suggest,” the city’s medical examiner said, “that you undergo a complete physical examination as soon as this meeting is concluded.”
“Why?” JMV asked.
“Because the possibility exists, Your Honor, that you’ve already been poisoned.”
“Well,” JMV said, “that sounds a bit farfetched.”
“Your Honor,” the medical examiner said, “an accumulation of small doses of poison administered over a period of time can result in death. Since we’re dealing with a man who has obviously evolved a long-term plan …”
“Yes, of course,” JMV said, “I’ll submit to examination as soon as you wish. Maybe you can clear up my cold at the same time,” he said charmingly, and grinned charmingly.
“Your Honor,” the president of the city council said, “I suggest we have each of the city’s vehicles inspected thoroughly and at once. I am remembering, sir, the bomb placed in …”
“Yes, we’ll have that done at once,” the district attorney said hastily.
“Your Honor,” the mayor’s press secretary said, “I’d like to suggest that we suppress all news announcements concerning your whereabouts, your speaking engagements, and so on, until this thing blows over.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” JMV said, “but of course I won’t be venturing too far from home in any case, will I, Stan?” he said, and grinned charmingly at the district attorney.
“No, sir, I’d advise your becoming a homebody for the next month or so,” the district attorney said.
“Of course, there may be a bomb in this office right this minute,” the police commissioner said tactlessly, causing everyone to fall suddenly silent. Into the silence, came the loud ticking of the wall clock, which was a little unnerving.
“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “perhaps we ought to have the premises searched, as well as my home. If we’re to do this right, we’ll have to take every precaution.”
“Yes, sir,” the district attorney said.
“And, of course, we’ll have to do everything in our power meanwhile to locate this man, this deaf man.”
“Yes, sir, we’re doing everything in our power right now,” the police commissioner said.
“Which is what?” JMV asked, charmingly.
“He’s got to make a mistake,” the police commissioner said.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He’s got to.”
“But in the meantime,” JMV asked, “do you have any leads?”
“Police work,” the commissioner said, “is a combination of many seemingly unconnected facets that suddenly jell,” and frowned, suspecting that his metaphor hadn’t quite come off. “There are a great many accidents involved in police work, and we consider these accidents a definite contributing factor in the apprehension of criminals. We will, for example, arrest a man on a burglary charge, oh, six or seven months from now, and discover in questioning him that he committed a homicide during the commission of another crime, oh, four or five months ago.
“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “I hope we’re not going to have to wait six or seven months for our man to make a mistake while committing another crime.”
“I didn’t mean to sound so pessimistic,” the commissioner said. “I was merely trying to explain, Your Honor, that a lot of police work dovetails past and present and future. I have every confidence that we’ll apprehend this man within a reasonable length of time.”