straightened up. The sketcher continued to ignore her. She opened the drawer of the bedside table with the crook of her finger, even though she knew Mike would already have looked there. Inside was a large jar of K-Y jelly and about a year’s supply of latex condoms in packets of three.
The man had been interested in eating and sex. She closed the drawer and left the room. Mike had arranged some items on the dining-room table, which was still gritty with gray fingerprint powder. The items were in clear plastic bags, alreadyneatly labeled. Among them was a pill container with twenty-five Kaminex remaining from a prescription of seventy-five, a notepad with the name Harold Dickey and a phone number written in blue ink on it, and a copy of
Final Exit
.
eleven
“H alloween.” Sergeant Joyce spat out the word with disgust. “Worst night of the year as far as I’m concerned.” She threw herself into a chair in the detective squad’s interview room, where the TV was on, set to a surgical procedure. The removal of what appeared to be an eyeball was in progress.
April leaned against the wall behind the monitor so that she wouldn’t have to watch it. Mike sat in the chair opposite her and stroked his mustache.
“One of my kids ate two pounds of candy and threw up half the night. The other one dressed like a washing machine—covered his head with a box from the supermarket and had his sister staple up the bottom. She forgot to put any holes for his arms, so the poor kid couldn’t collect anything.” Sergeant Joyce shook her head fondly. “Can you beat that?”
April and Mike exchanged glances.
Joyce sighed gustily. “Well, what do you think?” She directed the question at Mike.
He winked. “Kids are great,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind having a few myself.”
“No kidding.” Joyce shot him a mean look. “Why don’t I believe that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about kids. I was talking about the case—Raymond what’s-his-name.”
“Okay.”
Whatever you say
.
The words “ovarian cancer” jumped out of the TV speaker.
Sergeant Joyce’s head jerked around as if she hadn’t realized the show was on. “What the fuck is that?”
April’s stomach rumbled. She jiggled her foot impatiently. It was lunchtime. The minutes were ticking away, and there was a lot to do.
“Looks like the TV. You want it off?”
“Yes, I want it off. I want it always off. Who turns that thing on, anyway?”
Mike leaned over and hit the power button. He shrugged again. If the squad supervisor didn’t know that Healy turned on the surgery channel every chance he got, it wasn’t his problem.
“I hope it’s suicide,” she said suddenly, pulling at her hair. “Our record is really getting to stink.”
April smiled. Yeah, here they were in what was called a quality-of-life precinct: the West Side north of Fifty-ninth Street, Central Park West to the Hudson River. The area included a number of high-profile churches and synagogues, the New York Historical Society, the Museum of Natural History, Columbus Avenue, where the TV networks were, Lincoln Center, several colleges and a university, a huge hospital complex. The list went on and on. This was where robberies, muggings, panhandling, car thefts, drugs, and rapes of the homeless were the major contenders for their time. Homicide was not exactly a daily occurrence around there. People didn’t like it. It made them nervous.
“It’s Healy. I know it’s Healy. He must have been rejected from medical school or something.” The Sergeant smirked at them, wanting them to know that even when she said she didn’t know things, she really did.
“High school,” Mike shot out.
“All right, all right. What about the stuff in this guy Raymond’s apartment?”
“You mean the book and the Kaminex?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a precise description of the plastic-bag suicide in the book, complete with some discussion about alcohol and
The man had been interested in eating and sex. She closed the drawer and left the room. Mike had arranged some items on the dining-room table, which was still gritty with gray fingerprint powder. The items were in clear plastic bags, alreadyneatly labeled. Among them was a pill container with twenty-five Kaminex remaining from a prescription of seventy-five, a notepad with the name Harold Dickey and a phone number written in blue ink on it, and a copy of
Final Exit
.
eleven
“H alloween.” Sergeant Joyce spat out the word with disgust. “Worst night of the year as far as I’m concerned.” She threw herself into a chair in the detective squad’s interview room, where the TV was on, set to a surgical procedure. The removal of what appeared to be an eyeball was in progress.
April leaned against the wall behind the monitor so that she wouldn’t have to watch it. Mike sat in the chair opposite her and stroked his mustache.
“One of my kids ate two pounds of candy and threw up half the night. The other one dressed like a washing machine—covered his head with a box from the supermarket and had his sister staple up the bottom. She forgot to put any holes for his arms, so the poor kid couldn’t collect anything.” Sergeant Joyce shook her head fondly. “Can you beat that?”
April and Mike exchanged glances.
Joyce sighed gustily. “Well, what do you think?” She directed the question at Mike.
He winked. “Kids are great,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind having a few myself.”
“No kidding.” Joyce shot him a mean look. “Why don’t I believe that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about kids. I was talking about the case—Raymond what’s-his-name.”
“Okay.”
Whatever you say
.
The words “ovarian cancer” jumped out of the TV speaker.
Sergeant Joyce’s head jerked around as if she hadn’t realized the show was on. “What the fuck is that?”
April’s stomach rumbled. She jiggled her foot impatiently. It was lunchtime. The minutes were ticking away, and there was a lot to do.
“Looks like the TV. You want it off?”
“Yes, I want it off. I want it always off. Who turns that thing on, anyway?”
Mike leaned over and hit the power button. He shrugged again. If the squad supervisor didn’t know that Healy turned on the surgery channel every chance he got, it wasn’t his problem.
“I hope it’s suicide,” she said suddenly, pulling at her hair. “Our record is really getting to stink.”
April smiled. Yeah, here they were in what was called a quality-of-life precinct: the West Side north of Fifty-ninth Street, Central Park West to the Hudson River. The area included a number of high-profile churches and synagogues, the New York Historical Society, the Museum of Natural History, Columbus Avenue, where the TV networks were, Lincoln Center, several colleges and a university, a huge hospital complex. The list went on and on. This was where robberies, muggings, panhandling, car thefts, drugs, and rapes of the homeless were the major contenders for their time. Homicide was not exactly a daily occurrence around there. People didn’t like it. It made them nervous.
“It’s Healy. I know it’s Healy. He must have been rejected from medical school or something.” The Sergeant smirked at them, wanting them to know that even when she said she didn’t know things, she really did.
“High school,” Mike shot out.
“All right, all right. What about the stuff in this guy Raymond’s apartment?”
“You mean the book and the Kaminex?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a precise description of the plastic-bag suicide in the book, complete with some discussion about alcohol and
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