The Mugger

by Ed McBain

  “We’ll find him, Molly,” Kling said. “Both Homicide North and the detectives in my precinct will be working on this one. Don’t worry.”

  “And when you find him,” Molly asked, “will that bring my sister back to life?”

  Kling watched her, an old woman at twenty-four, sitting in her chair with her shoulders slumped, mourning a life and carrying a new life within her. They were silent for a long time. Finally, Kling said he had to be leaving, and Molly graciously asked if he wouldn’t like a cup of coffee. He said no, and he thanked her, and then he shook hands with Bell and went outside, where the brittle afternoon sunlight washed the streets of Riverhead.

  The kids were piling out of the junior high school up the street, and Kling watched them as he walked, young kids with clean-scrubbed faces, rowdy boys and pretty girls, chasing each other, shouting at each other, discovering each other.

  Jeannie Paige had been a kid like this not many years ago.

  He walked slowly.

  There was a bite in the air, a bite that made him wish winter would come soon. It was a peculiar wish, because he truly loved autumn. It was strange, he supposed, because autumn was a time of dying, summer going quietly to rest, dying leaves, and dying days, and…

  Dying girls.

  He shook the thought aside. On the corner opposite the junior high, a hot dog cart stood, and the proprietor wore a white apron, and he owned a moustache and a bright smile, and he dipped his fork into the steaming frankfurter pot and then into the sauerkraut pot, and then he put the fork down and took the round stick from the mustard jar and spread the mustard and handed the completed masterpiece to a girl of no more than fourteen who stood near the cart. She paid for the frankfurter, and there was pure joy on her face as she bit into it, and Kling watched her and then walked on.

  A dog darted into the gutter, leaping and frisking, chasing a rubber ball that had bounced from the sidewalk. A car skidded to a stop, tires screeching, and the driver shook his head and then smiled unconsciously when he saw the happy pup.

  The leaves fell toward the pavement, oranges and reds and yellows and russets and browns and pale golds, and they covered the sidewalks with crunching mounds. He listened to the rasp of the leaves underfoot as he walked, and he sucked in the brisk fall air, and he thought, It isn’t fair; she had so much living to do.

  A cold wind came up when he hit the avenue. He started for the elevated station, and the wind rushed through the jacket he wore, touching the marrow of his bones.

  The voices of the junior-high-school kids were far behind him now, up De Witt Street, drowned in the controlled shriek of the new wind.

  He wondered if it would rain.

  The wind howled around him, and it spoke of secret tangled places, and it spoke of death, and he was suddenly colder than he’d been before, and he wished for the comforting warmth of a coat collar, because a chill suddenly worked its way up his spine to settle at the back of his neck like a cold, dead fish.

  He walked to the station and climbed the steps, and curiously, he was thinking of Jeannie Paige.

  The girl’s legs were crossed.

  She sat opposite Willis and Byrnes in the lieutenant’s office on the second floor of the 87th Precinct. They were good legs. The skirt reached to just a shade below her knees, and Willis could not help noticing they were good legs. Sleek and clean, full-calved, tapering to slender ankles, enhanced by the high-heeled black-patent pumps.

  The girl was a redhead, and that was good. Red hair is obvious hair. The girl had a pretty face, with a small Irish nose and green eyes. She listened to the men in serious silence, and you could feel intelligence on her face and in her eyes. Occasionally, she sucked in a deep breath, and when she did, the severe cut of her suit did nothing to hide the sloping curve of her breast.

  The girl earned $5,555 a year. The girl had a .38 in her purse.

  The girl was a detective/2nd grade, and her name was Eileen Burke, as Irish as her nose.

  “You don’t have to take this one if you don’t want it, Miss Burke,” Byrnes said.

  “It sounds interesting,” Eileen answered.

  “Hal—Willis’ll be following close behind all the way, you understand. But that’s no guarantee he can get to you in time should anything happen.”

  “I understand that, sir,” Eileen said.

  “And Clifford isn’t such a gentleman,” Willis said. “He’s beaten, and he’s killed. Or at least we think so. It might not be such a picnic.”

  “We don’t think he’s armed, but he used something on his last job, and it wasn’t his fist. So you see, Miss Burke—”

  “What we’re trying to tell you,” Willis said, “is that you needn’t feel any compulsion to accept this assignment. We would understand completely were you to refuse it.”

  “Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?” Eileen asked.

  “We’re simply asking you to make your own decision. We’re sending you out as a sitting duck, and we feel—”

  “I won’t be such a sitting duck with a gun in my bag.”

  “Still, we felt we should present the facts to you before—”

  “My father was a patrolman,” Eileen said. “Pops Burke, they called him. He had a beat in Hades Hole. In 1938, an escaped convict named Flip Danielsen took an apartment on Prime and North Thirtieth. When the police closed in, my father was with them. Danielsen had a Thompson submachine gun in the apartment with him, and the first round he fired caught my father in the stomach. My father died that night, and he died painfully, because stomach wounds are not easy ones.” Eileen paused. “I think I’ll take the job.”

  Byrnes smiled. “I knew you would,” he said.

  “Will we be the only pair?” Eileen asked Willis.

  “To start, yes. We’re not sure how this’ll work. I can’t follow too close, or Clifford’ll panic. And I can’t lag too far behind, or I’ll be worthless.”

  “Do you think he’ll bite?”

  “We don’t know. He’s been hitting in the precinct and getting away with it, so chances are he won’t change his m.o.—unless this killing has scared him. And from what the victims have given us, he seems to hit without any plan. He just waits for a victim and then pounces.”

  “I see.”

  “So we figured an attractive girl walking the streets late at night, apparently alone, might smoke him out.”

  “I see.” Eileen let the compliment pass. There were about four million attractive girls in the city, and she knew she was no prettier than most. “Has there been any sex motive?” she asked.

  Willis glanced at Byrnes. “Not that we can figure. He hasn’t molested any of his victims.”

  “I was only trying to figure what I should wear,” Eileen said.

  “Well, no hat,” Willis said. “That’s for sure. We want him to spot that red hair a mile away.”

  “All right,” Eileen said.

  “Something bright, so I won’t lose you—but nothing too flashy,” Willis said. “We don’t want the Vice Squad picking you up.”

  Eileen smiled. “Sweater and skirt?” she asked.

  “Whatever you’ll be most comfortable in.”

  “I’ve got a white sweater,” she said. “That should be clearly visible to both you and Clifford.”

  “Yes,” Willis said.

  “Heels or flats?”

  “Entirely up to you. You may have to…Well, he may give you a rough time. If heels hamper you, wear flats.”

  “He can hear heels better,” Eileen said.

  “It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll wear heels.”

  “All right.”

  “Will anyone else be in on this? I mean, will you have a walkie-talkie or anything?”

  “No,” Willis said, “it’d be too obvious. There’ll be just the two of us.”

  “And Clifford, we hope.”

  “Yes,” Willis said.

  Eileen Burke sighed. “When do we start?”

  “Tonight?” Wi
llis asked.

  “I was going to have my hair done,” Eileen said, smiling, “but I suppose that can wait.” The smile broadened. “It isn’t every girl who can be sure at least one man is following her.”

  “Can you meet me here?”

  “What time?” Eileen asked.

  “When the shift changes. Eleven forty-five?”

  “I’ll be here,” she said. She uncrossed her legs and rose. “Lieutenant,” she said, and Byrnes took her hand.

  “Be careful, won’t you?” Byrnes said.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She turned to Willis. “I’ll see you later.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Good-bye now,” she said, and she left the office.

  When she had gone, Willis asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think she’ll be okay,” Byrnes said. “She’s got a record of fourteen subway-masher arrests.”

  “Mashers aren’t muggers,” Willis said.

  Byrnes nodded reflectively. “I still think she’ll be okay.”

  Willis smiled. “I think so, too,” he said.

  In the squadroom outside, Detective Meyer was talking about cats.

  “The tally is now up to twenty-four,” he told Temple. The damnedest thing the 33rd has ever come across.”

  Temple scratched his chin. “And they got no lead yet, huh?”

  “Not a single clue,” Meyer said. He watched Temple patiently. Meyer was a very patient man.

  “He just goes around grabbing cats,” Temple said, shaking his head. “What would a guy want to steal cats for?”

  “That’s the big question,” Meyer said. “What’s the motive? He’s got the 33rd going crazy. I’ll tell you something, I’m glad this one isn’t in our laps.”

  “Argh,” Temple said, “I’ve had some goofy ones in my time, too.”

  “Sure, but cats? Have you ever had cats?”

  “I had cats up telephone poles when I was walking a beat,” Temple said.

  “Everybody had cats up telephone poles,” Meyer said. “But this is a man who’s going around stealing cats from apartments. Now, tell me, George, have you ever heard anything like that?”

  “Never,” Temple said.

  “I’ll let you know how it works out,” Meyer promised. “I’m really interested in this one. Tell you the truth, I don’t think they’ll ever crack it.”

  “The 33rd is pretty good, ain’t it?” Temple asked.

  “There’s a guy waiting outside,” Havilland shouted from his desk. “Ain’t anybody gonna see what he wants?”

  “The walk’ll do you good, Rog,” Meyer said.

  “I just took a walk to the water cooler,” Havilland said, grinning. “I’m bushed.”

  “He’s very anemic,” Meyer said, rising. “Poor fellow, my heart bleeds for him.” He walked to the slatted rail divider. A patrolman was standing there, looking into the squadroom.

  “Busy, huh?” he asked.

  “So-so,” Meyer said indifferently. “What’ve you got?”

  “An autopsy report for…” He glanced at the envelope. “Lieutenant Peter Byrnes.”

  “I’ll take it,” Meyer said.

  “Sign this, will you?” the patrolman said.

  “He can’t write,” Havilland answered, propping his feet up on the desk.

  Meyer signed for the autopsy report. The patrolman left.

  An autopsy report is a coldly scientific thing.

  It reduces flesh and blood to medical terms, measuring in centimeters, analyzing with calm aloofness. There is very little warmth and emotion in an autopsy report. There is no room for sentiment, no room for philosophizing. There is only one or more eight-and-half-by-eleven sheets of official-looking paper, and there are type-written words on the sheets, and those words explain in straightforward medical English the conditions under which such and such a person met death.

  The person whose death was open to medical scrutiny in the autopsy report that Meyer brought to the lieutenant was a young girl named Jeannie Rita Paige.

  The words were very cold.

  Death is not famous for its compassion.

  The words read:

  CORONER’S AUTOPSY REPORT

  PAIGE, JEANNIE RITA

  Female, white, Caucasian. Apparent age, 21. Chronological age, 17. Apparent height, 64 inches. Apparent weight, 120 lbs.

  GROSS INSPECTION:

  Head and face:

  a) FACE—Multiple contusions visible. Frontal area of skull reveals marked depression of the tablet of bone, which measures approximately 10 cm; commencing 3 cm above the right orbit, the depression then descends obliquely downward across the bridge of the nose and terminates in the mid-portion of the left maxilla.

  There are marked hemorrhagic areas visible in the conjunctiva areas of both eyes. Gross examination also reveals the presence of clotted blood within the nasal and optic orifices.

  b) HEAD—There is an area of cerebral concussion with depression of tablet of bone, which involves the left temporal region of the skull. The depression measures approximately 11 cm and runs obliquely downward from the bregma to a point 2 cm above and lateral to the superior aspect of left ear. There are multiple blood clots matted in the head hair.

  Body:

  The dorsal and ventral aspects of the thorax and chest reveal multiple superficial abrasions and slight lacerations.

  The right buttock reveals an area of severe abrasion.

  The right lower extremity reveals a compound fracture of the distal portion of tibia and fibula, with bone protruding through medial distal third of the extremity.

  Examination of PELVIS grossly and internally reveals the following:

  1) No evidence of blood in vaginal vault.

  2) No evidence of attempted forced entrance or coitus.

  3) No evidence of seminal fluid or sperm demonstrable on gross and microscopic examination of vaginal secretions.

  4) Uterus is spherical in outline grossly and measures approximately 13.5 x 10 x 7.5 cm.

  5) Placental tissue as well as chorionic and decidual tissue are present.

  6) A fetus measuring 7 cm long and weighing 29 gms is present.

  IMPRESSIONS:

  1) Death instantaneous due to blows inflicted upon skull and face. Cerebral concussion.

  2) Multiple abrasions and lacerations inflicted over body and compound fracture of lower right extremity, tibia and fibula, probably incurred by descent over cliff.

  3) There is no evidence of sexual assault.

  4) Examination of uterine contents reveals a three-month pregnant uterus.

  He could not shake the dead girl from his mind.

  Back on the beat Monday morning, Kling should have felt soaring joy. He had been inactive for too long, and now he was back on the job, and the concrete and asphalt should have sung beneath his feet. There was life everywhere around him, teeming, crawling life. The precinct was alive with humanity, and in the midst of all this life, Kling walked his beat and thought of death.

  The precinct started with the River Highway.

  There, a fringe of greenery turned red and burnt umber hugged the river, broken by an occasional tribute to World War I heroes and an occasional concrete bench. You could see the big steamers on the river, cruising slowly toward the docks farther downtown, their white smoke puffing up into the crisp fall air. An aircraft carrier lay anchored in the center of the river, long and flat, in relief against the stark brown cliffs on the other side. The excursion boats plied their idle autumn trade. Summer was dying, and with it, the shouts and joyous revelry of the sunseekers.

  And up the river, like a suspended, glistening web of silver, the Hamilton Bridge regally arched over the swirling brown waters below, touching two states with majestic fingers.

  At the base of the bridge, at the foot of a small stone-and-earth cliff, a seventeen-year-old girl had died. The ground had sucked up her blood, but it was still stained a curious maroon-brown.

  The big apartment buildings
lining the River Highway turned blank faces to the bloodstained earth. The sun was reflected from the thousands of windows in the tall buildings, buildings which still employed doormen and elevator operators, and the windows blinked across the river with fiery-eyed blindness. The governesses wheeled their baby carriages up past the synagogue on the corner, marching their charges south toward the Stem, which pierced the heart of the precinct like a multicolored, multifeathered, slender, sharp arrow. There were groceries and five-and-tens, and movie houses, and delicatessens, and butchers, and jewelers, and candy stores on the Stem. There was also a cafeteria on one of the corners, and on any day of the week, Monday to Sunday, you could spot at least twenty-five junkies in that cafeteria, waiting for the man with the White God. The Stem was slashed up its middle by a wide iron-pipe-enclosed island, broken only by the side streets that crossed it. There were benches on each street end of the island, and men sat on those benches and smoked their pipes, and women sat with shopping bags clutched to their abundant breasts, and sometimes the governesses sat with their carriages, reading paperbacked novels.

  The governesses never wandered south of the Stem.

  South of the Stem was Culver Avenue.

  The houses on Culver had never been really fancy. Like poor and distant relatives of the buildings lining the river, they had basked in the light of reflected glory many years ago. But the soot and the grime of the city had covered their bumpkin faces, had turned them into city people, and they stood now with hunched shoulders and dowdy clothes, wearing mournful faces. There were a lot of churches on Culver Avenue. There were also a lot of bars. Both were frequented regularly by the Irish people, who still clung to their neighborhood tenaciously—in spite of the Puerto Rican influx, in spite of the Housing Authority, which was condemning and knocking down dwellings with remarkable rapidity, leaving behind rubble-strewn open fields in which grew the city’s only crop: rubbish.

  The Puerto Ricans hunched in the side streets between Culver Avenue and Grover’s Park. Here were the bodegas, carnicerias zapaterias, joyerias, cuchifritos joints. Here was La Via de Putas, “The Street of the Whores,” as old as time, as thriving and prosperous as General Motors.