“We don’t want to hurt you,” the priest said, and she knew this meant they did want to hurt her, would in fact hurt her more than they already had if she did not give them the names they wanted. Her mind worked quickly, frantically searching for a way to protect her own interests, give them the names of the customers, why not, but withhold the name of the ounce dealer — you could always find new customers if you knew where to get the stuff. Hiding her secret, hiding her fear as well, she calmly gave them all the names they wanted, all of the twelve she had memorized, writing them down at their request, scribbling the names and addresses on a sheet of paper, trying to conceal the shaking of her fist as she wrote. And then, after she had given them all the names, and had even clarified the spelling of some of them, after she thought it was all over, thought they had what they wanted from her now, and would leave her alone with her broken nose and the bleeding slash across her belly, she was surprised to hear the priest ask, “Where did he get the stuff?” and she hesitated before answering, and realized all at once that her hesitation had been another mistake, her hesitation had informed them that she knew the source of Paco’s supply, knew the name of his ounce dealer and wanted it from her now.
“I don’t know where,” she said.
Her teeth were beginning to chatter. She kept looking at the razor in the fat woman’s hand.
“Cut off her nipple,” the priest said, and her hands went instinctively to her scarred breasts as the fat woman approached with the razor again, and suddenly she was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, and she heard herself telling them the name, heard herself giving away her secret and her freedom, saying the name over and over again, babbling the name, and thought that would truly be the end of it, and was astonished to see the razor flashing out again, shocked beyond belief when she saw blood spurting from the tip of her right breast and knew, Oh dear Jesus, that they were going to hurt her anyway, Oh sweet Mary, maybe kill her, Oh sweet mother of God, the razor glinting and slashing again and again and again until at last she fainted.
In the station house, the squadroom looked exactly the same every day of the week, weekends and holidays included. But on Monday mornings, everyone knew it was Monday, the feel was just different. Like it or not, it was the start of another week. Sameness or not, it was somehow different.
Carella was at his desk at 7:30 A.M., fifteen minutes before he was scheduled to relieve the graveyard shift. The men on the night watch were wrapping it up, winding down over coffee and crullers from an all-night greasy spoon on Crichton, talking softly about the events that had transpired in the empty hours of the night. The shift had been a relatively quiet one. They kidded Carella about coming in fifteen minutes early; was he bucking for detective/1st? Carella was bucking for a conversation with Karl Loeb, the med-student friend Timothy Moore claimed to have telephoned several times on the night Sally Anderson was shot to death.
There were three columns of Loebs in the Isola telephone directory, but only two of the listings were for men named Karl Loeb, and only one of those listed an address on Perry Street, three blocks from Ramsey University. Moore had told Carella that he could be reached at the school during the daytime. Carella didn’t know whether or not Ramsey would be observing a cockamamie holiday like Presidents’ Day, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, if the school was closed today, Loeb might decide to go out for a picnic or something. He wanted to catch him at home, before he left one way or the other. He dialed the number.
“Hello?” a woman said.
“Hello, may I speak to Karl Loeb, please?” Carella said.
“Who’s this, please?” the woman asked.
“Detective Carella of the 87th Squad.”
“What do you mean?” the woman said.
“Police department,” Carella said.
“Is this a joke?” she said.
“No joke.”
“Well... just a sec, okay?”
She put down the phone. He heard her calling to someone, presumably Loeb. When Loeb came onto the line, he sounded puzzled.
“Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Loeb?”
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad.”
“Yes?”
“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?” Loeb said.
“Do you know a man named Timothy Moore?”
“Yes?”
“Were you at home Friday night, Mr. Loeb?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mr. Moore call you at any time on Friday night? I’m talking now about Friday, February twelfth, this past Friday.”
“Well... can you tell me what this is about, please?”
“Is this an inconvenient time for you, Mr. Loeb?”
“Well, I was shaving,” Loeb said.
“Shall I call you back?”
“No, but... I would like to know what this is about.”
“Did you speak to Mr. Moore at any time this past Friday night?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you remember what you discussed?”
“The exam. We have a big exam coming up. In Pathology. Excuse me, Mr. Coppola, but—”
“Carella,” Carella said.
“Carella, excuse me. Can you tell me what this is about, please? I’m not really in the habit of getting mysterious phone calls from the police. In fact, how do I even know you’re a policeman?”
“Would you like to call me back here at the precinct?” Carella said. “The number here—”
“Well, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. But, really—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Loeb, but I’d rather not tell you what it’s about just yet.”
“Is Timmy in some kind of trouble?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what... I just don’t understand.”
“Mr. Loeb, I’d appreciate your help. Do you remember when Mr. Moore called you?”
“He called me several times.”
“How many times, would you estimate?”
“Five or six? I really couldn’t say. We were swapping information back and forth.”
“Did you call him at any time?”
“Yes, two or three times.”
“So between the two of you—”
“Maybe four times,” Loeb said. “I really couldn’t say. We were sort of studying together on the phone.”
“So you exchanged calls nine or ten times, is that right?”
“Roughly. Maybe a dozen times. I don’t remember.”
“Throughout the night?”
“Well, not all night.”
“When was the first call?”
“Around ten o’clock, I guess.”
“Did you call Mr. Moore, or did—”
“He called me.”
“At ten o’clock.”
“Around ten. I’m not sure of the exact time.”
“And the next call?”
“I called him back about a half hour later.”
“To swap information.”
“To ask him a question, actually.”