“And this man came down the stairs. I don’t even think he saw me. The machines are sort of off to the side, you know. He went straight for the steps at the other end, the ones that go up to the street. There are two flights of steps. One goes to the lobby, the other goes to the street. He went up to the street.”
“Was he anyone you recognized?”
“What do you mean?”
“From the building? Or the neighborhood?”
“No. I’d never seen him before last night.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Sure. He was about twenty-one, twenty-two years old, your height and weight, well, maybe a little bit shorter, five-ten or eleven. Brown hair.”
Kling was already writing. “Notice the color of his eyes?” he said.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Was he white or black?”
“White.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Dark trousers, high-topped sneakers, a poplin windbreaker. With blood on the sleeve and on the front.”
“Which sleeve?”
“The right one.”
“Any hat?”
“No.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Yes. A small red bag. It looked like one of those bags the airlines give you.”
“Any scars, tattoos, marks?”
“Well, I couldn’t say. He wasn’t that close. And he went by in pretty much of a hurry, considering.”
“Considering
“His leg. He was dragging his right leg. I think he was hurt pretty badly.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Carella asked.
“In a minute,” Nora said.
What they had in mind, of course, was identification from a mug shot. What they had in mind was the possibility that the I.S. would come up with something positive on the fingerprints that had been sent downtown. What they all hoped was that maybe, just once, it would turn out to be a nice, easy one—the Identification Section would send them the record of a known criminal, and they would pick him up without a fuss, and parade him in a squad-room lineup, from which Nora Simonov would pick him out as the man she had seen in the basement at 10:45 the night before, with blood on his clothes.
The I.S. reported that none of the fingerprints in their file matched the ones found in the apartment.
So the detectives sighed, and figured it was going to be a tough one after all (they are
And, just to prove that cops can be as wrong as anyone else, it turned out to be a nice, easy one, after all.
The call came from a physician in Riverhead at 4:37 that afternoon, just as Carella was ready to go home.
“This is Dr. Mendelsohn,” he said. “I have your bulletin here, and I want to report treating a man who fits your description.”
“Where are you located, Dr. Mendelsohn?” Carella asked.
“On Dover Plains Avenue. In Riverhead. 3461 Dover Plains.”
“When did you treat this man?”
“Early this morning. I have early office hours on Monday. It’s my day at the hospital.”
“What did you treat him for?”
“A bad ankle sprain.”
“No fracture?”
“None. We X-rayed the leg here. It was quite swollen, and I suspected a fracture, of course, but it was merely a bad sprain. I taped it for him, and advised him to stay off it for a while.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“Yes. I have it right here.”
“May I have it, sir?”
“Ralph Corwin.”
“Any address?”
“894 Woodside.”
“In Riverhead?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mendelsohn,” Carella said.
“Not at all,” Mendelsohn said, and hung up.
Carella pulled the Riverhead telephone directory from the top drawer of his desk, and quickly flipped to the C’s. He did not expect to find a listing for Ralph Corwin. A man would have to be a rank amateur to first burglarize an apartment without wearing gloves, then stab a woman to death, and then give his name when seeking treatment for an injury sustained in escaping from the murder apartment.
Ralph Corwin was apparently a rank amateur.
His name was in the phone book, and the address he’d given the doctor was as true as the day was long.
They kicked in the door without warning, fanning into the room, guns drawn.
The man on the bed was wearing only undershorts. His right ankle was taped. The bedsheets were soiled, and the stench of vomit in the close, hot room was overpowering.
“Are you Ralph Corwin?” Carella asked.
“Yes,” the man said. His face was drawn, the eyes squinched in pain.
“Police officers,” Carella said.
“What do you want?”
“We want to ask you some questions. Get dressed, Corwin.”
“There’s nothing to ask,” he said, and turned his head into the pillow. “I killed her.”
