Terrell spent an hour or so absorbing gossip and impressions, and then drifted into the roll call room which was dominated by a high wooden bench. This was where the preliminary hearing would be held; a magistrate was on his way to the Sixteenth now, and Caldwell had already been slated for murder and taken upstairs to the detectives’ bureau for additional questioning. He was being treated with scrupulous care; one of his law partners was with him, and he had been allowed to talk to Sarnac.
Terrell sat down on a wooden seat that ran along the wall. The man beside him grinned and said, “You think he strangled her before or after?”
Terrell glanced at him, then lit a cigarette.
“The smart money is betting after,” the man said. He was small and excited, hugging himself with thin arms.
“Whose smart money?” Terrell said. “Ike Cellars’?”
The little man shrugged and rubbed his arms. “Well, it’s just a gag, friend.”
The atmosphere was carnival, Terrell realized, glancing around the smoky room. He noted the wise little grins, the rib-nudgings, the expressions of relief and excitement. There would be no more talk of waste and corruption. No more threats of exposure. The reform candidate was in jail for attacking and murdering a girl. Well, it figured; what could you expect from these holy joes, these virtuous bastards? It was a good joke. Hypocrisy had been exposed; that was always funny.
Terrell saw Sarnac come in a few minutes later, moving like a man in a waking nightmare; his face was dazed, his eyes were red with tears. Terrell joined him, and Sarnac said desperately, “I can’t think straight. Do you believe he did this? I... I can’t think at all.”
“Let’s go outside.”
“But do you believe it?”
“Let’s get some air. We can talk then.”
The night was cold, and wind buffeted the windows of dark, silent buildings. Terrell took Sarnac’s arm and led him down the block, away from the noisy crowd gathered around the brightly-lit entrance of the station. He felt illogically angered by Sarnac’s impotence; what good were tears? This was a time for guts. No wonder reformers usually looked silly, he thought. Pious fools. Expecting the flock to turn over new leaves and join them in song. The flock understood nothing but a knee in the groin.
“Everything we’ve worked for is smashed,” Sarnac said. “You’ve talked to Caldwell? What did he say?”
“Just to keep his wife away from him.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“No — he doesn’t seem to know what’s happening.”
“He’ll find out,” Terrell said. “I’ve talked to the lab men. Skin from Caldwell’s face has been found under the girl’s nails. Caldwell had been drinking. The girl is dead. That’s the DA’s case.”
“Something must have snapped. It could happen to anyone, particularly to someone with his spirit and energy — but I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.”
“That’s better,” Terrell said. “Keep talking that way.”
A hope began to burn in Sarnac’s eyes. “Do you know anything that will help him?”
Terrell hesitated a second or so. Then he said, “The whole story may help. And I’m after the whole story. Now let’s go back and watch poor blind-folded justice at work. Hampered only slightly by the gun in her back.”
Richard Caldwell was held for the Grand Jury without bail by a magistrate named Seaworth, who listened to Patrolman Coglan’s testimony without taking his eyes from the prisoner’s face. The magistrate was conscious of his moment in history, Terrell realized; he suffered the press photographers gladly, raising his head slightly to firm up his double chin, and freezing thoughtfully to indicate that he understood the solemnity of his decision. Actually he had no alternative; the bare facts made it mandatory for him to hold Caldwell for the Grand Jury.
The little patrolman, Coglan, stared at the floor as he gave his testimony, and the bright lights above the bar of justice gleamed on the bald spot at the back of his gray head. Everyone strained forward to listen. Coglan told of hearing a scream and going directly into Caldwell’s home. The front door was ajar and he found Caldwell in a dazed condition with the dead girl lying on the floor. He did not mention seeing anyone else in or near the house.
It went faster then. The police surgeon testified that Caldwell had been drinking. A lab technician gave the findings of his section. Caldwell made no statement and his attorney waived cross-examination.
Magistrate Seaworth banged his gavel for silence and gave his verdict.
And that was the end of act one, Terrell thought, as he watched Caldwell being led by police toward the cell block. There was no expression on Caldwell’s face; he stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the murmuring crowd, but his eyes were like those of a man on a rack.
Someone shouted, “Get out of my way!” in a high, raging voice and began to fight through the crowd toward Caldwell. Magistrate Seaworth banged his gavel as a man shoved forward and swung a looping blow at Caldwell’s face. The blow landed, cutting Caldwell’s lip and then a patrolman caught the man from behind and locked his arms to his sides.
Terrell recognized him as flash bulbs began exploding on all sides of the room. Frankie Chance. Eden Myles’ friend.
Chance was tall and slim with wavy black hair and deep, brown eyes that were soft as a child’s. He was handsome enough, but there was a sulky pampered look about his mouth, as if he expected lavish payment for his smiles and good humor. He was a fiery hothead, Terrell knew, an emotional savage. And now there was nothing calculating or devious in his frenzy; he was struggling like a maniac against the big cop who was holding him and lashing futilely at Caldwell with his sharply pointed shoes.
“You killed her!” he screamed, and his soft, petulant mouth twisted as if he were under torture. “Because she wouldn’t let you touch her, because you’re not even half a man.”
Magistrate Seaworth raised his gavel, but Captain Stanko caught his eye, and Seaworth cleared his throat and put the gavel gently down on the bench. Public relations, Terrell thought, as the flash bulbs continued to pop. Don’t cut yet! It’s good copy.
“You killed her,” Chance was screaming. “You wanted her, you wanted to get your hands on her, to hurt her, to kill her — that’s all you want from a woman. That’s how you get your kicks.” Chance was crying now, the tears flowing from his deep brown eyes and glistening on his smooth, youthful cheeks. “Well, you’ll get your kicks when they strap you in the charr...”
“Take that man out of here!” Seaworth shouted, bringing the gavel down with a crash. “This is a courtroom, not a—” He sputtered as he groped for words. “Not a place for demonstration. Take him out, officer...”
Terrell eased himself through the crowd and reached the public phone in the hallway. He called Wheeler and gave him a few paragraphs of atmosphere, including Frankie Chance’s attack on Caldwell. When he finished Wheeler said, “That’s very juicy. Now here’s a message for you. Karsh wants you to come in. There’s been some confusion about that prowler Paddy Coglan did or did not see. The Superintendent called Karsh about it, and so did Stanko — they both said you’d gone off half-cocked. Also there’ve been certain implications that Coglan might have been a bit loaded tonight. Williams says he has a reputation as a rummy.”
“So what happened?” Terrell said.
“Karsh killed the prowler angle just before we locked up,” Wheeler said. “He wants to talk to you.”
Terrell sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Well, there goes Caldwell’s loophole,” he said. “They’ve turned it into a noose.” The disgust he felt was evident in his voice. “Tell Karsh I’m on my way,” he said, and dropped the phone back into its hook.