"Me?" Patt said. He made a motion to rise, and Byrnes moved quickly and effortlessly, so that by the time Patt was squatting on his haunches he was looking into the level muzzle of Byrnes' pistol. But Patt seemed not to notice the gun. He seemed intent only on studying the dead bird at his feet. He moved the bird with one hand, holding the brick in the other hand. "Me? What did I want out of this? A chance, Lieutenant. Big time, Lieutenant."
"How?"
"This kid, Gonzo-you know about the Gonzo, don't you? Silly damn thing, isn't it? But sort of weird-this kid, Gonzo, he came to me and said, 'How do you like that? Annabelle tells me he's got a junkie friend whose old man runs the dicks at the 87th.' That's what Gonzo said to me, Lieutenant."
Byrnes watched him. Patt had lifted the brick slowly, and now he brought it down almost gently, but with a gentle force, smashing it against the body of the dead pigeon. He brought back the brick again, and again he hit the bird with it. There was blood on the brick now, and feathers. He brought it back unconsciously, and then down again, almost as if he were unaware of what he was doing to the bird.
"I figured this was it, Lieutenant. I figured I'd get your son into a setup that looked pretty bad, and then I'd come to you, Lieutenant, and lay my cards on the table and say, 'This is how it stands, Lieutenant. Your son's story gets blabbed all over the newspapers unless I get your cooperation.' I had your son rigged for a murder rap, Lieutenant. I was sure you'd cooperate."
He kept pounding with the brick. Byrnes pulled his eyes away from the disintegrating bird.
"What kind of cooperation did you expect?"
"I push," Patt said. "But I'm afraid. I could really expand if I didn't have to be afraid all the time. I didn't want to take a fall. I wanted you to help. I wanted hands off from you or any of your dicks. I wanted to be free to roam the precinct and push wherever I wanted to, without being afraid of getting pinched. That's what I wanted, Lieutenant."
"You'd never have got it," Byrnes said. "Not from me, and not from any cop."
"Maybe not from you. But, oh, it was sweet, Lieutenant. I sold this little Annabelle jerk a bill of goods. I told him all I wanted was a syringe with your son's prints on it. He dragged your son in and gave him a free fix, and then he switched syringes before your son left that night. I was waiting. When your son took off, I went in to see Annabelle. He was nodding, half blind. I loaded a syringe with enough H to knock the top of his head off. He didn't even know I was injecting it. Then I took your son's syringe out of Annabelle's pocket, and I laid it on the cot beside him."
"Why the rope?" Byrnes asked.
Patt kept hitting the bird, pulverizing it with the brick, spewing feathers and blood onto the tar of the roof. "That was an afterthought. It occurred to me-Jesus, suppose they think it is a suicide? Or suppose they think it was just an accidental overdose? Where does that leave my murder frame? So I put the rope around Annabelle's neck. I figured the police would be smart enough to know it was tied there after he was killed. I wanted them to know it was homicide, because I was measuring your son for the rap. Your son was my bargaining tool, Lieutenant. My bargaining tool for a free precinct."
"A free precinct," Byrnes repeated.
"Mmm, yes," Part said. "But it didn't work out, did it? And then Maria, and the old woman-how do these things get so complicated?"
He stopped pounding and looked down at the tar suddenly. The bird was a crushed mass of bloody pulp and feathers. The brick was stained with blood, as were Patt's hands. He looked at the pigeon, and then he looked at the brick and his hands as if he were seeing them for the first time. And then, quite suddenly, he began sobbing.
"You'd better come with me," Byrnes said gently.
They booked him at the 87th. They charged him with the murder of three people. And after he'd been booked, Byrnes went up to his office, and he stood looking out over the park, and then he saw the clock in the park tower, and the clock told him it was five minutes to midnight.
Five minutes to Christmas.
He went to his telephone.
"Yes?" the desk sergeant said.
"This is the Lieutenant," Byrnes said. "Can I have a line, please?"
"Yes, sir."
He waited for his dial tone, and then he dialed his Calm's Point number, and Harriet answered the phone.
"Hello, Harriet," he said.
"Hello, Peter."
"How is he?"
"I think he's going to be all right," she said.
"He's better?"
"Better than he was, Peter. He doesn't seem… he hasn't been vomiting or fidgeting or behaving like a wild man. I think he's licked it physically, Peter. The rest is up to him."
"Yes," Byrnes said. "Is he awake?"
"Yes, he is."
"May I talk to him?"
"Certainly, darling."
"Harriet?"
"Yes?"
"I know I've been chasing around, but I wanted you to know… I mean, all this running around these past few days…"
"Peter," she said gently, "I married a cop."
"I know you did. I'm grateful for it. Merry Christmas, Harriet."
