“Let’s have it,” Kling said.
“I... I don’t know what—”
Kling hit him again. He swung up his arm, and then he brought it forward and down in a sharp short blow, hitting the exact same spot, like a boxer working on an opened wound, hitting directly and with expert precision, and then pulling back the gun, and tightening his left hand in Manners’ clothes, and saying, “Talk.”
“You son of a... you son of a bitch,” Manners said, and Kling hit him again, breaking the bridge of his nose with the gun this time, the bones suddenly splintering through the skin.
“Talk,” he said.
Manners was bellowing in pain. He tried to bring his hands to his shattered nose, but Kling shoved them away. He stood before the man like a robot, the hand tight in the front of the coveralls, his eyes slitted and dead, the gun ready.
“Talk.”
“I... I...”
“Why’d you do it?” Kling asked.
“He... he... oh, Jesus, my nose... Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...” The pain was excruciating. He gasped with the agony of trying to bear it. His hands kept flitting up to his face, and Kling kept knocking them away. Tears filled his eyes mixed with the blood from the open wound on his forehead, running into the blood that gushed from his mashed nose. Kling brought back the gun a fourth time.
“No!” Manners screamed. “Don’t!” And then the words came streaming from his mouth in an anxious torrent, tumbling from his lips before the gun descended again, one word piling onto the next, a hysterical outburst from a terrified and wounded animal. “He came in here the lousy Jew bastard and told me the color was wrong the lousy kike told me the color was wrong I wanted to kill him right then and there I had to do the whole job over again the lousy son of a bitch bastard he had no right telling me the kike the louse I told him I warned him I told him he wasn’t going to get away with this can’t even speak English the bastard I followed him I killed him I killed him I killed him I killed him!”
The gun descended.
It hit Manners in the mouth and shattered his teeth, and he collapsed against the car as Kling raised the gun again and fell upon him.
It took both Carella and Brown a full five minutes to pull Kling off the other man. By that time, he was half dead. Carella was already typing up the false report in his head, the report that would explain how Manners had resisted arrest.
Patterns.
Indictment for Murder in the First Degree by Shooting
The Grand Jury of Isola, by this indictment, accuse the defendant of the crime of murder in the first degree, committed as follows:
The defendant in Isola, on or about October 13, willfully, feloniously and of malice aforethought shot Herbert Land with a pistol and thereby inflicted divers wounds upon said Herbert Land and thereafter and on or about October 13 said Herbert Land died of the wounds.
...feloniously and of malice aforethought, shot Anthony La Scala with a pistol and thereby inflicted divers wounds...
...upon said Joseph Wechsler and thereafter and on or about October 13...
...said Claire Townsend died of the wounds.
Patterns.
The pattern of December sunlight filtering past barred and grilled windows to settle in a dead white smear on a scarred wooden floor. Shadows merge with the sun smear, the shadows of tall men in shirt sleeves; it will be a cold December this year.
A telephone rings.
There is the sound of a city beyond those windows.
“87th Squad, Carella.”
There are patterns to this room. There is a timelessness to these men in this place doing the work they are doing.
They are all deeply involved in the classic ritual of blood.