too: they’d probably never realize it,
but without that evidence the boy could have found himself in bad
trouble. From Mendoza’s viewpoint that would have been regrettable
chiefly because it would have diverted the investigation into a blind
alley. They had wasted enough official time as it was.
He looked again at his map, and sighed. The
lunatic—of this or that sort—was his own postulation, and he
could be wrong: that had sometimes happened. Ideally an investigator
should be above personal bias, which—admitted or
unconscious—inevitably slanted the interpretation of evidence. And
yet evidence almost always had to be interpreted—full circle back
to personal opinion. There was always the human element, and also
what Dr. Rhine might call the X factor, which Mendoza, essentially a
fatalist as well as a gambler, thought of as a kind of cosmic
card-stacking. Much of the time plodding routine and teamwork led you
somewhere eventually; but it was surprising how often the sudden
hunch, the inspired guess, the random coincidence, took you round by
a shorter way. And sometimes the extra aces in the deck fell to the
opponent’s hand, and there was nothing you could do about that. The
law of averages had nothing to do with it.
"I dropped in to see if the autopsy report’s
come through . . . . oh, well, suppose we couldn’t expect it over
Sunday. Nothing much in it anyway. Back to the treadmill—"
Hackett got up. "I’ve still got some of the kids to see, ones
at the rink that night."
"The rink," said Mendoza, still staring at
his map. "Yes. We’ll probably get the autopsy report by
tonight—the inquest’s been set for Tuesday. Yes— Vaya
. . . . todo es posible . Yes, you get on with
the routine, as becomes your rank—me, I’m taking the day off from
everything else, to shuffle through this deck again, por
decirlo asi —maybe there’s a
marked card to spot."
He brooded over the map another minute when Hackett
had gone, and penciled in a line connecting the two circles. He
shrugged and said to himself, Maybe, maybe—folded the map away, got
his hat and coat and went out.
Downstairs, as he paused to adjust the gray Homburg,
a couple of reporters cornered him; they asked a few desultory
questions about the Ramirez girl, but their real interest was in
Sergeant Galeano’s husband-killer, who was of a socially prominent
clan. The more sensational of the evening papers had put Elena
Ramirez on the front page, but it wasn’t a good carry-over
story—they couldn’t make much out of a Hartners’ stock-room
girl, and the boy friend wasn’t very colorful either. The
conservative papers had played it down, an ordinary back-street
mugging, and by tomorrow the others would relegate it to the middle
pages. They had the socialite, and the freight yard corpse, besides a
couple of visiting dignitaries and the Russians; and a two-bit
mugging in the Commerce Street area, that just happened to turn into
a murder, was nothing very new or remarkable.
Maneuvering the Ferrari
out into Main Street, Mendoza thought that was a point of view, all
right: almost any way you looked at it, it was an unimportant,
uninteresting kill. No glamor, no complexity, nothing to attract
either the sensationalists or the detective-fiction fans. In fact,
the kind of murder that happened most frequently....The press had
made no connection between Elena Ramirez and Carol Brooks. No, they
weren’t interested; but if the cosmic powers had stacked the deck
this time, and that one stayed free to kill again, and again,
eventually some day he would achieve the scare headlines, and then— de
veras, es lo de siempre , Mendoza reflected
sardonically, the mixture as before: our stupid, blundering police!
* * *
Once off the main streets here, away from the
blinding gleam of the used-car lots, the screamer ads plastered along
store-fronts, these were quiet residential streets, middle-class,
unremarkable. Most of the houses neatly maintained, if shabby:
but without that evidence the boy could have found himself in bad
trouble. From Mendoza’s viewpoint that would have been regrettable
chiefly because it would have diverted the investigation into a blind
alley. They had wasted enough official time as it was.
He looked again at his map, and sighed. The
lunatic—of this or that sort—was his own postulation, and he
could be wrong: that had sometimes happened. Ideally an investigator
should be above personal bias, which—admitted or
unconscious—inevitably slanted the interpretation of evidence. And
yet evidence almost always had to be interpreted—full circle back
to personal opinion. There was always the human element, and also
what Dr. Rhine might call the X factor, which Mendoza, essentially a
fatalist as well as a gambler, thought of as a kind of cosmic
card-stacking. Much of the time plodding routine and teamwork led you
somewhere eventually; but it was surprising how often the sudden
hunch, the inspired guess, the random coincidence, took you round by
a shorter way. And sometimes the extra aces in the deck fell to the
opponent’s hand, and there was nothing you could do about that. The
law of averages had nothing to do with it.
"I dropped in to see if the autopsy report’s
come through . . . . oh, well, suppose we couldn’t expect it over
Sunday. Nothing much in it anyway. Back to the treadmill—"
Hackett got up. "I’ve still got some of the kids to see, ones
at the rink that night."
"The rink," said Mendoza, still staring at
his map. "Yes. We’ll probably get the autopsy report by
tonight—the inquest’s been set for Tuesday. Yes— Vaya
. . . . todo es posible . Yes, you get on with
the routine, as becomes your rank—me, I’m taking the day off from
everything else, to shuffle through this deck again, por
decirlo asi —maybe there’s a
marked card to spot."
He brooded over the map another minute when Hackett
had gone, and penciled in a line connecting the two circles. He
shrugged and said to himself, Maybe, maybe—folded the map away, got
his hat and coat and went out.
Downstairs, as he paused to adjust the gray Homburg,
a couple of reporters cornered him; they asked a few desultory
questions about the Ramirez girl, but their real interest was in
Sergeant Galeano’s husband-killer, who was of a socially prominent
clan. The more sensational of the evening papers had put Elena
Ramirez on the front page, but it wasn’t a good carry-over
story—they couldn’t make much out of a Hartners’ stock-room
girl, and the boy friend wasn’t very colorful either. The
conservative papers had played it down, an ordinary back-street
mugging, and by tomorrow the others would relegate it to the middle
pages. They had the socialite, and the freight yard corpse, besides a
couple of visiting dignitaries and the Russians; and a two-bit
mugging in the Commerce Street area, that just happened to turn into
a murder, was nothing very new or remarkable.
Maneuvering the Ferrari
out into Main Street, Mendoza thought that was a point of view, all
right: almost any way you looked at it, it was an unimportant,
uninteresting kill. No glamor, no complexity, nothing to attract
either the sensationalists or the detective-fiction fans. In fact,
the kind of murder that happened most frequently....The press had
made no connection between Elena Ramirez and Carol Brooks. No, they
weren’t interested; but if the cosmic powers had stacked the deck
this time, and that one stayed free to kill again, and again,
eventually some day he would achieve the scare headlines, and then— de
veras, es lo de siempre , Mendoza reflected
sardonically, the mixture as before: our stupid, blundering police!
* * *
Once off the main streets here, away from the
blinding gleam of the used-car lots, the screamer ads plastered along
store-fronts, these were quiet residential streets, middle-class,
unremarkable. Most of the houses neatly maintained, if shabby:
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