“All right.”
“Fine, Mrs. Redfield. When you get here, just tell the desk sergeant you want to see me, Detective Carella, and he’ll pass you through.”
“All right. Where is it?”
“On Grover Avenue, right opposite the park’s carousel entrance.”
“All right. Is Lewis there?”
“Yes. Do you want to speak to him?”
“No, that’s all right.”
“We’ll see you soon, then.”
“All right,” Margaret Redfield said, and then she hung up.
“She’s coming over,” Carella said.
“Good,” Redfield answered.
Carella smiled and put the phone back onto its cradle. It rang almost instantly. He pulled the receiver up again and said, “87th Squad, Carella.”
“Carella, this is Freddie Holt, the Eight-Eight across the park.”
“Hi, Freddie,” Carella said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”
“You still working on the sniper case?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. We got your boy.”
“What?” Carella said.
“Your boy, the guy who’s been doing it.”
“What do you mean?”
“We picked him up maybe ten minutes ago. Shields and Durante made the collar. Got him on a rooftop on Rexworth. Shot two ladies in the street before we could pin him down.” Holt paused. “Carella? You with me?”
“I’m with you,” Carella said wearily.
16
The man in the cage in the squadroom of the 88th Precinct was a raving lunatic. He was wearing dungarees and a tattered white shirt, and his hair was long and matted, and his eyes were wild. He climbed the sides of the small mesh prison like a monkey, peering out at the detectives in the room, snarling and spitting, rolling his eyes.
When Carella came into the room, the man in the cage shouted, “Here’s another one! Shoot the sinner!”
“That’s the man?” Carella asked Holt.
“That’s him, all right. Hey, Danny!” Holt called, and a detective sitting at one of the desks rose and walked to where Carella and Holt were standing.
“Steve Carella, Danny Shields.”
“Hi,” Shields said. “I think we met once, didn’t we? That fire over on Fourteenth?”
“I think so, yeah,” Carella said.
“Don’t go too near the cage,” Shields warned. “He spits.”
“Want to fill me in on it, Danny?” Carella said.
Shields shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. The beat cop called in about a half-hour ago—it was about a half-hour, huh, Freddie?”
“Yeah, about that,” Holt said.
“Told us some nut was up on the roof shooting down into the street. So Durante and me, we took the squeal, and he was still blasting away when we got there. I went up the hallway, and Durante took the building next door, to go up the roof, you know, catch him by surprise. By the time we got up there, he’d plugged two dames in the street. One was an old lady, the other was a pregnant woman. They’re both in the hospital now.” Shields shook his head. “I just spoke to the doctor on the phone. He thinks the pregnant one’s gonna die. The old lady has a chance, he says. That’s the way it always is, huh?”
“What happened on the roof, Danny?”
“Well, Durante opened fire from the next building, and I come in and got him from behind. He was some bundle, believe me. Look at him. He thinks he’s Tarzan.”
“Shoot the sinners!” the man in the cage yelled. “Shoot all the filthy sinners!”
“Did you get his weapon?”
“Yeah. It’s over there on the desk, tagged and ready to go.”
Carella glanced at the desk. “That looks like a .22,” he said.
“That’s what it is.”
“You can’t fire a .308 slug from that,” Carella said.
“Who said you could?”
“Well, what makes you think this is my boy?”
“We figured it was a chance. We been getting a lot of heat on this, Carella. The loot got a call from downtown only yesterday, asking if we was really helping you guys or just fooling around up here.”
“I don’t think he’s connected with it,” Carella said.
“Well, what do you want us to do?”
“Have you checked his apartment yet?”
“What apartment? He probably sleeps in the park.”
“Where’d he get a rifle?”
“We’re checking our stolen guns list now. There was a couple of hockshops busted into, night before last. Maybe he done it.”
“Have you questioned him yet?”
“Questioned him? He’s got a screw loose, all he does is yell about sinners and spit at anybody who goes near him. Look at him, the crazy bastard.” Shields looked at him, and then burst out laughing. “Jesus,” he said, “just like a monkey, look at him.”
“Well, if you find out where he lives, run a check for me, will you? We’re looking for any gun that might have fired a .308 Remington.”
“That’s a lot of guns, buddy,” Shields said.
“Yeah, but it’s not a .22.”
“That’s for sure.”
“You’d better call Buenavista and tell them to warm up a bed in the psycho ward.”
“I already done it,” Shields said. “Not your boy, huh?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Too bad. I’ll tell you the truth, Carella, we were a little anxious to get rid of him.”
“Why? Nice sweet old guy like that.”
“Well, we got a problem, you see.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Who’s gonna take him out of that cage?” Shields asked.
Margaret Buff Redfield was waiting for Carella when he got back to the squadroom.
She was thirty-nine years old, and she looked tired. Her hair was brown, and her eyes were brown, and she wore a shade of lipstick too red for her complexion, and a dress that hung limply from her figure.
She took Carella’s hand wearily when her husband introduced them, and then looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to crack her across the face. Suddenly Carella had the notion that the woman had been hit before, and often. He glanced at the soft-spoken Redfield, and then turned his attention back to Margaret.
“Mrs. Redfield,” he said, “there are some questions we’d like to ask you.”
“All right,” Margaret said.
Intuitively Carella turned to Redfield and said, “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to your wife privately.”
“Why?” Redfield said. “We’re married. We have no secrets.”
“I know that, sir, and I respect it, believe me. But we’ve found that people will often be very nervous in the presence of their husbands or wives, and we try to conduct an interview privately, if it’s at all possible.”
“I see,” Redfield said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well…”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll ask Miscolo to show you to a room down the hall. There are some magazines in there, and you can smoke if you—”
“I don’t smoke,” Redfield said.
“Or perhaps Miscolo can bring you a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you, I don’t want a—”
“Miscolo!” Carella yelled, and Miscolo came running at the double. “Would you show Mr. Redfield down the hall, please, and make him comfortable?”
“Right this way, sir,” Miscolo said.
Reluctantly, Redfield got out of his chair and followed Miscolo out of the squadroom. Carella waited until he was certain Redfield was out of earshot, and then he turned to Margaret and quickly said, “Tell me about the party in 1940.”
“What?” she said, startled.
“The party at Randy Norden’s house.”
“How…how did you know about that?” she asked.
“We know about it.”
“Does my husband know?” she asked quickly.
“We didn’t ask him, Mrs. Redfield.”