Night Extra

Eden Myles lay sprawled in the middle of the room, and Richard Caldwell sat slumped in a deep chair with his head bent forward at an awkward angle; he was breathing noisily and raggedly, and every now and then an inarticulate little moan sounded deep in his throat. Captain Stanko, in command of the Sixteenth, was shaking his shoulder with a big red hand, and a police surgeon was peering into his eyes. The room was a shambles. Lab men moved around upended chairs with efficient speed and a homicide detective named Evans was studying a tipped-over lamp with a vacant expression on his face. Caldwell’s chauffeur stood at the far end of the room, a bulky man in pajamas and brown woolen robe. He seemed completely stunned; his eyes were fixed on Caldwell’s limp figure and his expression was almost a parody of bewilderment. Standing a few feet from him was Paddy Coglan, the uniformed cop whom Terrell had spoken to from the Call-Bulletin. Coglan was a small man, stockily built, with kinky gray hair and a round, red face. His eyes were switching around the room, flicking from spot to spot as if seeking a place to rest.

“We can take her now,” one of the lab men said to Captain Stanko, and Evans, the homicide detective, turned and looked thoughtfully at the body of the dead girl.

She hadn’t died prettily, Terrell thought. The model, the singer, proud of her lean, elegant body and dramatic good looks — that was all over. He had seen this kind of violence for years; on the police beats he had covered cuttings and brawls, autopsies on bodies pulled from flaming automobiles, murders in good neighborhoods and bad, crimes of passion that ignored income groupings, color lines and actuarial tables. But he had never gotten used to it. He had never developed a tolerance for violence. It sickened him, and in some way made him ashamed of himself. Now he felt that shame and guilt as he stared at Eden Myles’ dark, swollen face and pitifully distended eyes. She had fought hard; her dress was torn across the front revealing her starkly white shoulders and the swell of her small breasts. One of her slippers was off and a stocking had been pulled loose from its garter clip; it hung now like a nylon fetter about her slim, hard ankle.

“Take her out,” Captain Stanko said.

The Call-Bulletin’s reporter was winding up his story in a discreetly lowered voice. Talking to Ollie Wheeler, Terrell thought. Mooney wouldn’t have had time to get anyone else. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. Karsh would be on his way by now, and a dozen rewritemen, reporters and photographers. He turned a bit to listen to Nelson. “Yes, that’s all I’ve got,” Nelson was saying. “I can’t talk to anybody yet. Caldwell looks drunk, and the girl is dead, that’s for sure. She’s messed up some. Lip cut, clothes torn, like she’d been worked over. What? Yes, Caldwell’s got some scratches on his face. Look. I’ll talk to Stanko when I can — yes, sure.”

“Just a second,” Terrell said sharply. “What about the man who ran out of here? Did you give him that?”

Nelson looked at him blankly. “First I heard about it. What do you mean? A prowler?”

“Prowler?” It was Captain Stanko speaking. He turned toward them, repeating the word in a cold, belligerent voice. He was a big man with a face like a block of dark wood, and his eyes were angry and suspicious as he stared from Nelson to Terrell. “Let me give you hot shots some advice. Don’t start dreaming up angles. You’ll get the story from my report. That will be the official version — the only version. You start inventing things and you’ll get your cans in a sling.”

Nelson put the phone he was holding back into its cradle. The gesture was expressive. “I’m not inventing anything, Captain. I’m waiting for your report.”

Stanko glanced at Terrell. “That suit you? Or do you want us to rush things up for your special benefit?”

The room had become very quiet. Evans, the homicide detective, was studying Terrell appraisingly, and the lab men had turned from their work to the sound of anger in Stanko’s voice. McIntyre, the Call-Bulletin photographer, casually shifted his camera into position to cover Terrell and the captain.

“I’m not inventing things,” Terrell said. “A man was seen out of this house tonight. After the girl was heard screaming. That’s part of the story, Captain.”

Stanko studied him for a few seconds with no expression at all on his face. Then he said, “Who saw him?”

“Your beat cop.” Terrell glanced toward the patrolman. “Paddy, didn’t you tell the captain what you told me on the phone?”

Coglan’s face was brick red. One of his hands moved in a pointless little gesture. “What do you mean, Sam?”