A: No.
Q: What did you do?
A: I stabbed her.
Q: Where did you stab her?
A: I don’t know. It was a reflex. She was yelling, I was afraid the whole building would come down. I just . . . I just stuck the knife in her. I was very scared.
Q: Did you stab her in the chest?
A: No.
Q: Where?
A: The belly. Someplace in the belly.
Q: How many times did you stab her?
A: Once. She . . . she backed away from me, I’ll never forget the look on her face. And she . . . she fell on the floor.
Q: Would you look at this photograph, please?
A: Oh, Jesus.
Q: Is that the woman you stabbed?
A: Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, I didn’t think . . . oh, Jesus.
Q: Is that the woman?
A: Yes. Yes, that’s her. Yes.
Q: What happened next?
A: Can I have a drink of water?
Q: Get him a drink of water. You stabbed her, and she fell to the floor. What happened next?
A: There was . . .
Q: Yes?
A: There was somebody at the door. I heard the door opening. Then somebody came in.
Q: Came into the apartment?
A: Yes. And yelled her name.
Q: From the front door?
A: I guess. From someplace at the other end of the apartment.
Q: Called her name?
A: Yeah. He yelled, “Sarah!” and when he got no answer, he yelled, “Sarah, it’s me, I’m home.”
Q: Then what?
A: I knew I was trapped. I couldn’t go out the way I come in because this guy was home. So I ran past the . . . the woman where she was laying on the floor . . . Jesus . . . and I tried to open the window, but it was stuck. So I smashed it with the airlines bag and . . . I didn’t know what to do . . . I was on the second floor, how was I going to get out? I threw the bag down first because I figured no matter what happened I was going to need bread for another fix, and then I climbed through the broken window—I cut my hand on a piece of glass—and I hung down from the sill, scared to let go, and finally I let go, I had to let go.
Q: Yes?
A: I must’ve dropped a mile, it felt like a mile. The minute I hit, I knew I busted something. I tried to get up, and I fell right down. My ankle was killing me, my hand was bleeding. I must’ve been in that alley ten, fifteen minutes, trying to stand up, falling down, trying again. I finally made it. I finally got out of that alley.
Q: Where did you go?
A: Through the basement and up to the street. The way I come in.
Q: And where did you go from there?
A: I took the subway home. To Riverhead. I turned on the radio right away to see if there was anything about . . . about what I done. But there wasn’t. So I tried to go to sleep, but the ankle was very bad, and I needed a fix. I went to see Dr. Mendelsohn in the morning because I figured it was like life or death, you know what I mean? If I couldn’t get around, how was I going to make a connection?
Q: When did you visit Dr. Mendelsohn?
A: Early. Nine o’clock. Nine A . M .
Q: Is he your family physician?
A: I never saw him before in my life. He’s around the corner from where I live. That’s the only reason I picked him, because he was close. He strapped up the ankle, but it didn’t do no good. I still can’t walk on it, I’m like a lousy cripple. I told him to bill me for it. I was going to pay him as soon as I got some bread. That’s why I gave him my right name and address. I wasn’t going to cheat him. I’m not that kind of person. I know that what I done is bad, but I’m not a bad person.
Q: When did you learn that Mrs. Fletcher was dead?
A: I bought a newspaper on the way home from the doctor’s. The story was in it. That’s when I knew I killed her.
Q: You did not know until then?
A: I did not know how bad it was.
4
O n Tuesday, December 14, which was the first of Carella’s two days off that week, he received a call at home from Gerald Fletcher. He knew that no one in the squad room would have given his home number to a civilian, and he further knew that the number was unlisted in the Riverhead directory. Puzzled, he said, “How’d you get my number, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Friend of mine in the D.A.’s office,” Fletcher said.
“Well, what can I do for you?” Carella asked. His voice, he realized, was something less than cordial.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home this way.”
“It is my day off,” Carella said, fully aware that he was being rude.
“I wanted to apologize for the other night,” Fletcher said.
“Oh?” Carella answered, surprised.
“I know I behaved badly. You men had a job to do, and I wasn’t making it any easier for you. I’ve been trying to understand what provoked my attitude, and I can only think I must have been in shock. I disliked my wife, true, but finding her dead that way was probably more unnerving than I realized. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Carella said. “You’ve been informed, of course, that . . .”
“Yes, you caught the murderer.”
“Yes.”
“That was fast and admirable work, Detective Carella. And it only adds to the embarrassment I feel for having behaved so idiotically.”
“Well,” Carella said, and the line went silent.
“Please accept my apologies,” Fletcher said.
“Sure,” Carella said, beginning to feel embarrassed himself.
“I was wondering if you’re free for lunch today.”
“Well,” Carella said, “I was going to get some Christmas shopping done. My wife and I made out a list last night, and I thought . . .”
“Will you be coming downtown?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Perhaps you could manage both.”
“Well, look, Mr. Fletcher,” Carella said, “I know you feel bad about the other night, but you said you’re sorry and that’s enough, believe me. It was nice of you to call, I realize it wasn’t an easy thing to . . .”
“Why not meet me at The Golden Lion at one o’clock?” Fletcher said. “Christmas shopping can be exhausting. You might welcome a break along about then.”
“Well . . . where’s The Golden Lion?” Carella asked.
“On Juniper and High.”
“Downtown? Near the Criminal Courts Building?”
“Exactly. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“One o’clock then?” Fletcher said.
“Well, yeah, okay,” Carella said.
“Good, I’ll look for you.”
Carella did not know why he went to see Sam Grossman at the Police Lab that afternoon. He told himself that he was going to be in the neighborhood, anyway, The Golden Lion being all the way downtown in the area bordered by the city’s various courthouses. But this did not explain why he rushed through the not-unpleasant task of choosing a doll for his daughter, April, in order to get to Police Headquarters on High Street a full half hour before he was to meet Fletcher.
Grossman was hunched over a microscope when Carella walked in, but without opening his one closed eye, and without raising his head from the eyepiece, he said, “Sit down, Steve, be with you in a minute.”
Grossman kept adjusting the focus and jotting notes on a pad near his right hand, never lifting his head. Carella was trying to puzzle out how Grossman had known it was he. The sound of his footfalls? The smell of his aftershave lotion? The faint aroma of his wife’s perfume clinging to the shoulder of his overcoat? He had not, until this moment, been aware that Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman, he of the spectacles and sharp blue eyes, he of the craggy face and clipped no-nonsense voice, was in reality Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, who was capable of recognizing a man without looking at him. Grossman’s remarkable trick occupied all of Carella’s thoughts for the next five minutes. At the end of that time, Grossman looked up from the microscope, extended his hand, and said, “What brings you to the eighth circle?”