The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,3

April sunshine.

Detective Steve Carella was glad the sun was shining.

It was not that Carella didn’t like rain. After all, the farmers sure needed it. And, though it may sound a bit poetic, walking hatless in the spring rain had been one of Carella’s favorite pastimes before the day of his idiocy.

The day of his idiocy had been Friday, December 22.

He would never think of it without referring to it as “the day of his idiocy” because that was the day he’d allowed a young punk pusher to take his service revolver away from him and fire three shots into his chest. That had been a fine Christmas, all right. That had been a Christmas when Carella could almost hear the angels, so imbued was he with the season’s spirit. That had been a Christmas when he thought he wouldn’t quite make it, when he thought sure he was a goner. And then, somehow, the clouds had blown away. And where there was a painful mist before, there was a slow clearing and Teddy’s face in that clearing, streaked with tears. He had recognized his wife, Teddy, first, and then slowly the rest of the hospital room had come into focus. She had leaned over the bed and rested her cheek against his, and he could feel her tears hot on his face, and he whispered hoarsely, “Cancel the wreath,” in an attempt at wit that was unfunny. She had clung to him fiercely, wordlessly—wordlessly because Teddy could neither speak nor hear. She had clung to him, and then she had kissed his unfunny humor off his mouth, and then she had covered his face with kisses, holding his hand all the while, careful not to lean on his bandaged, wounded chest.

He had healed. Time heals all wounds, the wise men say.

Of course, the wise men didn’t know about rain and bullet holes. When it rained, Carella’s healed wounds ached. He always thought that was a bunch of bull, wounds aching when it rained. Well, it was not a bunch of bull. His wounds ached when it rained, and so he was glad the rain had stopped and the sun was shining.

The sun was shining on what had once been a girl, and Carella looked down at the travesty death had wrought, and there was momentary pain in his eyes and momentary anger, and both passed.

To Di Angelo, he said, “You find the body, Fred?”

“Some kids,” Di Angelo said. “They come running to me. Jesus, it’s a mess, ain’t it?”

“It almost always is,” Carella said. He looked at the body again, and then because certain police formalities had to be followed whenever an unknown body turned up, he took a small black pad from his back pocket. He opened the pad, slid the pencil out from under its leather loop, and wrote:

1) Place where body found: Washed ashore on rock pile in River Harb.

2) Time when found:

He looked up at Di Angelo. “When did you get here, Fred?”

Di Angelo looked at his watch. “I’d say around one-fifteen, Steve. I was just a little bit off Silvermine, and I’m generally there around…”

“One-fifteen it is,” Carella said, and he wrote down the information. He then wrote, 3) Cause of death? and 4) Time when death occurred? and left both those items to be filled in by the ME or the coroner.

He next wrote:

5) Supposed age: 25-35.

6) Supposed profession: ?

7) Description of body:

a) Sex: Female.

b) Color: White.

c) Nationality: ?

d) Height: ?

e) Weight: ?

There were a lot of question marks.

There were also a good many other items Carella could have listed under a description of the body. Items like build and complexion and hair and eyes and eyebrows and nose and chin and face and neck and lips and mouth and many more. And to these he could have given answers ranging from short and stocky to stout and square-shouldered, or small and pug, or square and dimpled, or thick and puffy, or any one of a hundred combinations for each category.

The trouble was that the body was a floater and pretty badly decomposed. Where an unknown body would automatically have called for a description of the eyes, the color, the shape, etc., Carella could give no such description here because the eyes had already decomposed. Where he would have liked to list the color of the girl’s hair, that hair had been washed away, and he settled for a brief note: Head hair gone. Pubic hair, blonde. He terminated his description of the body