Which situation brought up a few problems. Which problems combined to lend the entire situation its air of putrefaction.
For assuming that someone wanted Hernandez dead, an assumption that seemed to be well-founded, and further assuming the someone had used an overloaded syringe of heroin as his murder weapon, why then was the murder weapon not removed from the scene of the crime?
Or why then, for that matter, was the body then hoisted by its own petard, more or less, in an attempt to stimulate a hanging suicide?
These were the knotty trivialities that disturbed the normal thinking of Detective Steve Carella. He knew, of course, that there could be a thousand and one motives for murder in the tangled world of drug addiction. He knew, too, that someone unfamiliar with the ways of the coroner's office might innocently hope to palm off a poisoning as a hanging. But he further knew that every man and boy in the United States had been raised on the Fingerprint Legend. Commit a crime? Wipe off the prints, boy. The prints had not been wiped from the syringe. The prints were there, as big as life, waiting to be lifted and studied. The syringe was there, too, and if someone were trying to palm off a hanging, would he leave a syringe around? Could he be so stupid as to believe the cops wouldn't automatically connect the syringe to a possible death by overdose?
Something stank.
Everything stank.
Carella had a sensitive nose and perhaps a sensitive mind. He walked the streets of the precinct, and he thought, and he wondered where he should begin because the right beginning was very often the most important time-saving device in detective work. And whereas he was, at the moment, primarily concerned with the Hernandez case, he couldn't very well forget the fact that he was a cop being paid to enforce law twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
When he saw the automobile parked at the curb near Grover Park, he gave it but a cursory glance. Were he an ordinary citizen out for a midafternoon promenade, the cursory glance would have sufficed. Because he was a law-enforcing cop, he took a second glance.
The second glance told him that the car was a 1939 Plymouth sedan, gray, license number 42L-1731. It told him that the right rear fender had been smashed in, and it told him that there were two occupants on the back seat, both male, both young. Two young men sitting in the back seat of a car presupposed the absence of a driver. Why were these kids waiting in a car alongside Grover Park, and for whom?
In that instant, Aníbal Hernandez left Carella's mind completely. Casually, he sauntered past the car. The occupants were no more than twenty-one years old. They watched Carella as he passed. They watched him very closely. Carella did not turn to look at the parked car again. He continued walking up the street, and then stepped into the tailor shop of Max Cohen.
Max was a round-faced man with a fringe of white hair that clung to his balding pate like a halo. He looked up when Carella came in, and said, "Hallo, Stevie, what's new?"
"What could be new?" Carella asked. He had already begun taking off his brown overcoat. Max eyed him curiously.
"Some teller work, maybe. You want something sewed?" he asked.
"No. I want to borrow a coat. How about that tan one on the rack? Will it fit me?"
"You vant to borrow…?"
"I'm in a hurry, Max. I'll bring it right back. I'm watching some people."
There was urgency in Carella's voice. Max dropped his needle and went to the rack of clothing. "Dun't get it doity, please," he said. "It's already been pressed."
"I won't," Carella promised. He took the coat from Max, shrugged into it, and then went outside again. The car was still up the street, standing at the curb alongside the park. The boys were still on the back seat. Carella took a position across the street from the car, standing so that the blind spot in the rear of the car hid him from view. Patiently, he watched.
The third boy appeared some five minutes later. He walked out of the park at a brisk clip, heading directly for the car. Carella shoved himself off the lamppost instantly and began crossing the street. The third boy did not see him; he walked directly to the car, opened the door on the driver's side, and climbed in. An instant later, Carella threw open the door opposite him.
"Hey, what…?" the driver said.
Carella leaned into the car. His coat was open and his gun butt lay a few inches from his right hand. "Sit tight," he said.
The boys in the back seat exchanged quick, frightened glances.
"Listen, you got no right to…" the driver started.
"Shut up," Carella said. "What were you doing in the park?"
"Huh?"
"The park. Who'd you meet there?"
"Me? Nobody. I was walking."
"Where'd you walk?"
"Around."
"Why?"
"I felt like walking."
"How come your pals here didn't go with you?"
"They didn't feel like walking."
"Why are you answering my questions?" Carella hurled.
"What?"
"Why are you answering me, goddamnit? How do you know I'm a cop?"
"I… I figured…"
"Were you expecting cop trouble?"
"Me? No, I was just going for a wa—"
"Empty your pockets!"
"What for?"
"Because I say so!" Carella shouted.
"He's got us cold," one of the boys in the back seat said.
"Shut up!" the driver snapped without turning his head.
"I'm waiting," Carella said.
The driver fished into his pockets slowly and cautiously. He placed a package of cigarettes on the seat of the car, and then quickly covered it with a comb, a wallet, and a key ring.
"Hold it," Carella said. Gingerly, he shoved the package of cigarettes to one side with his forefinger. The cigarettes had been resting on, and covering, a small envelope. Carella picked up the envelope, opened it, spilled some white powder onto the palm of his hand, and then tasted it. The boys watched him silently.
"Heroin," Carella said. "Where'd you get it?"
The driver didn't answer.
"You make the buy in the park?"
"I found it," the driver said.
"Come on! Where'd you buy it?"
"I found it, I told you."
"Mister, you're getting a possessions charge whether you found it or inherited it. You might be helping yourself if you told me who pushed this junk to you."
"Leave us out of this," the boys in the back said. "We ain't got none of the junk on us. Search us, go ahead. Search us."
"I'm booking the three of you for acting in concert. Now, who pushed it?"
"I found it," the driver said.
"Okay, smart guy," Carella agreed, "you found it. Have you got a license to drive this car?"
"Sure I do."
"Then start driving it."
"Where to?"
"Take a long guess," Carella answered. He slid onto the seat and slammed the door behind him.
There was nothing Roger Havilland liked better than questioning suspects, especially when he could question them alone. Roger Havilland was probably the biggest bull in the 87th Precinct, and undoubtedly the meanest son of a bitch in the world. You couldn't really blame Havilland for his attitude about punks in general. Havilland had once tried to break up a street fight and had in turn had his arm broken in four places. Havilland had been a gentle cop up to that time, but a compound fracture that had to be rebroken and reset because it would not heal properly had not helped his disposition at all. He had come out of the hospital with a healed arm, and a somewhat curious philosophy. Never again would Havilland be caught unawares. Havilland would strike first and ask questions later.
So there was nothing he enjoyed more than questioning suspects, especially when he could question them alone and unassisted. Unfortunately, Carella was with him in the interrogation room on that Wednesday afternoon, December 20th.