He stopped for a red light.
He stared at the light for a long time, thinking of the young girl on the ledge twelve stories above the street, hearing again the scream that had faded down to the gutter, hearing again the dull empty sound of her body striking the pavement.
The light changed to green.
The image of the dead girl lingered in his mind. Deserted by a man she loved, no apparent reason for staying alive, she jumped. It has to look black. It has to look so goddamn black that there really is no other way; it has to appear that death is more comforting than life, it has to be that barren and that desperate, it has to say exactly what that note in the apartment did say, there is no other way.
All right, then, the decision. For some reason-what’s the reason?-for some reason, these two, Tommy and Irene have decided that there is no other way, they must end it, they must… what did the note say?… now we can end the suffering of ourselfs and others. All right, they had decided to end the suffering. What suffering? Nobody knew about it, damnit. Michael Thayer is a prime candidate for the cuckold of the year, he lets his wife come and go as she pleases, so who the hell knew about it, who were all these other suffering people? Nobody, that’s who. Barlow lived with his brother Amos, and Amos knew nothing at all about Irene, so he certainly wasn’t suffering. Anyway why should he have been suffering even if he did know about his brother’s girl? And Mary Tomlinson approved of the affair, so she wasn’t suffering, so nobody was sufferings so let’s take another chorus from the top.
Nobody’s suffering.
But the note says end the suffering of ourselfs… spelled wrong,, have to get some information about Tommy and Irene, the way they spelled, maybe look at some of their letters… end the suffering of ourselfs and others. But Tommy and Irene weren’t suffering because they were meeting every other week like rabbits, maybe more often, and nobody else was suffering, either, so the note doesn’t make any sense.
Unless a few people are lying.
Unless, for example, Thayer did know all about his wife’s little adventure with young Tommy there, and was all broken up about it, and maybe refused a divorce, and maybe was suffering a little. In which case, the note would be accurate, no other way out, suffering, good, we’ll turn on the gas.
Or maybe young Amos Barlow knew his brother was seeing Irene and didn’t like the idea, told him to stay away from a married woman, told him it broke his heart to see Tommy involved in anything as hopeless as this. In which case, the note would again be accurate, Amos would be suffering, no other way out, good, back to the kitchen and the stove.
Or maybe old Mary Tomlinson, the gentle old genial condoner of her daughter’s affair, so she says, maybe she didn’t like the idea, maybe she told her daughter divorce was a rotten thing, no matter how much of a bully and a boss Thayer was, maybe she said, Darling daughter, stick it through, work it out, this is senseless and it’ll break my heart. In which case, note, suffering, ditto, gas.
And in which case, also, everybody happens to be lying.
Which is unreasonable.
Why lie if there’s nothing to cover?
Why insist there’s been a homicide if they all know Tommy and Irene had good reason to kill themselves? You don’t lie to cover up a suicide.
No, wait a minute, I guess you could. I guess you could figure a suicide is a blot on the family escutcheon, something to live down, maybe something hereditary, maybe something that can rub off on all the relatives and friends. Nobody likes the taint of suicide, so maybe they are lying about it. Maybe they figure homicide is a much more socially acceptable way to go, a better status symbol. Yes, my poor daughter and her lover were murdered don’t you know? Yes, my poor wife was killed while having an affair, have you heard? Yes, my beloved brother was done in while making love to his mistress. Very posh. Murder is glamorous. Suicide is a drag.
Well, maybe it was a suicide, Carella thought. Maybe they went up there and took off all their cloths-no, not all their clothes, they both left their pants on Propriety. It wouldn’t do to be found dead naked, not stark naked. They took off some of their clothes, took them off very neatly, stacked them neatly, hung them neatly, of course. Two very neat people. They certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be found in a state of nudity. Certainly not. So they left their underwear on for decency’s sake, oh Jesus, I am sick to death of Tommy and Irene, I am sick to death of what I see everytime we turn that knob marked homicide and open that rotten goddamn door and find what’s inside. I am sick of it, I am sick of it. Why can’t they keep themselves private? Why must they parade themselves before everyone to see, exhibit themselves as poor pitiful confused human beings who haven’t yet mastered the art of living together? Why must they show the world and each other that all they know how to do is die together! Go into your room, lock your door, make your love, and leave us alone! Don’t confuse it with illuminating gas and explosions, don’t muddy it with blood, keep your goddamn privacy private!
He stopped for another light, and closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, his mind had clicked shut again. He was Detective 2nd Grade Stephen Louis Carella again, shield number 714-56-32.
Tommy got the apartment.
They went up there with two bottles of whisky.
They typed a suicide note.
They turned on the gas.
They took off most of their clothes.
They tried to get drunk, they tried to make love.
The gas reached them before they could accomplish either.
They died.
“This was no goddamn suicide!” Carella said aloud. His own voice startled him. This was no suicide, he repeated silently.
He nodded in the near-darkness of the closed sedan.
This was no suicide.
I want to find out if Tommy Barlow was insured, he thought, and he made an abrupt left turn and began driving toward the house Tommy Barlow had shared with his brother Amos.
The house was dark and deserted when he pulled the curb in front of it. He thought this was odd because Barlow had told him he was home from work every night at six, and it was now six-thirty, but the house seemed empty and lifeless. He got out of the car. There was a silence to the street, and memory suddenly overtook him in a painfully sweet rush, the memory of his own boyhood street, deserted just before suppertime, a young boy walking toward the house his father owned, his mother calling again from the upstairs window, “Stevie! Supper!” and the slow smiling nod of his head, April. The buds would be opening. The world would be coming alive. He had once seen a cat run over by an automobile, the guts had been strewn all over the gutter, he had turned away in horror, April and the opening buds, April and a cat lying dead in the gutter, matted fur and… blood, and the smell of spring everywhere, green, opening.